Pirates of the Caribbean: The African Star
by ErinRua
Summary: An unscrupulous slave ship captain, a royal gem, and a perilous hunt that will span sea and storm Jack and Will embark on adventure once more. COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1 Familiar Faces

**Disclaimer**: _None. Everyone knows they aren't mine. Face it, mate, fan-fiction writers are bloody pirates._ ;-)  
**A/N:** _Here I have cheerfully mixed pure fantasy with bits of history and geography, so if you notice something familiar - only to see it fuddled by fiction - I'm only following the lead of the original scriptwriters._ :-)

**_NOTE:_**_ The poem quoted at the beginning and end of this story is "Sea Fever" by John Masefield. To the best of my knowledge, it was published before 1913 and has since passed into the Public Domain._

**_Dear Readers_**_ - It thrills me to no end to find new people discovering this story after the release of PoTC: AWE. I wrote this story three years before, and I can't say how much it pleases me that it still finds readers. To all who have commented and/or included me on your Favorites, thank you. I regret other concerns forbids me answering every comment these days, but know that I read you and enjoy. Thank you, and may the fair winds blow your way._

_ Erin, __July 3, 2007_

**PIRATES OF THE ****CARIBBEAN****: THE AFRICAN STAR**

**By ErinRua**

_I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,_  
_And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by._  
_ John Masefield_

CHAPTER 1

The little ketch _Antoinette_ fled like a panicked sparrow, but there was no escaping the dark ship that strode in her wake. The hunter had appeared from the morning mist like a tall grey phantom and the _Antoinette_'s captain and crew looked back in very fear. On she came like a gathering storm, her black hull knifing the waves beneath sails dark as storm clouds. Even while they watched, white spume burst thundering against the black ship's bow, for her tall press of canvas drove her as the ketch's lesser sails could not. Then a different white cloud blossomed at the hunter's fore, followed an instant later by a thumping boom - and a sharp splash off the _Antoinette_'s starboard quarter.

A gun in the bows, the captain observed in despair, a mere forerunner for the gaping black ports now open in the black ship's sides. The message was clear enough. The captain thought once again of the eight guns in his own below-decks, but to offer battle now would be fatal. The _Antoinette_ was honest and sea-worthy as a merchantman could want, but she was no match for the wolves of the sea.

"Captain! CAPTAIN!"

A quick thud of feet preceded the panting, heaving appearance of a portly man, who hove himself onto the quarterdeck with such vigor the captain fully expected him to sprawl at his feet. Powdered wig askew and panic crimping his chubby cheeks, the man cried, "We must DO something!"

"We are, Master Bemis," the captain replied. "We are heaving to before she sinks us."

"Heaving -?" Master Bemis' several chins quivered amongst the froth of lace at his throat. "But my cargo! My ship!"

The horror on Master Bemis' plump face went unnoticed as the captain shouted his orders. Sailors leaped to obey and in seconds canvas thumped limply overhead as sheets were loosened and sails spilled their wind. The pursuer loomed towards them like a thunderhead as the _Antoinette_ slowed and settled heavily in the water. Sailors gaped in horror to see that it was no illusion; the hunter's tall sails were indeed made of smoke-black canvas - dark as a pirate's heart. Amidst the rigging snapped a black flag, the dreaded Jolly Roger.

"What is that thing?" breathed a sailor in the little craft's waist.

"That's a pirate ship, ye daft chuff," replied one of his mates.

"Not just any pirate ship," quavered another. "That's the _Black Pearl_."

As colorful as their ship was dour, the pirate crew swarmed over the rails and from the rigging in a very flood of snarling menace. Harsh cries and the flash of steel drove terror into their victims' hearts, and two warning shots cracked smartly as crewmen dove for cover. Yet the little craft was not without courage, as seen when the _Antoinette_'s bo'sun loomed to his full six-foot-four, roaring like a bear while he seized an iron belaying pin in one great fist. A grizzled pirate turned at a warning shout but his pistol was empty, and as he scrabbled for his sword the huge man swept the heavy pin high overhead. Then the bo'sun's eyes promptly crossed, went unfocused, and he toppled face-down with a shattering thud.

There behind him stood a lean dark blade of a man, wild-eyed with black hair to his shoulders and an abominable tricorn hat on his brow. Scowling at the man he had just felled, he lowered the hilt of his cutlass and observed his nearly-fallen comrade.

"That's a good way to lose your head, Mister Gibbs," he said.

"Thanks, cap'n," gasped the older pirate then vanished back into the fray.

Lifting his head the pirate captain turned a hawkish profile and keenly surveyed his conquest. Even among pirates he was a spectacle to behold. His wiry frame was draped in a long_ justaucorps_ coat whose wide cuffs were shiny with wear, its exact hue a forgotten mystery. A flintlock pistol was stuffed through the belt that clasped a long sash about his lean waist, a heavy baldric wrapped around his chest, and his legs were encased in boots to the knee. Most curious of all, however, were the tiny colored objects glinting in his tangled dark hair. That he was aware of his appearance was undoubted, for his pose was that of a man who expected eyes upon him.

Around him the brief resistance was ending in a series of thumped heads and cracked chins, as the remainder of the ketch's crew hoisted their hands in surrender. A supremely pleased smile lifted the ends of the pirate's thin black moustache and he squared himself in a wide-legged stance.

"Everyone remain calm!" he bawled in a voice rough with salt and sea-winds. "We shall detain you only a little while, provided we have your complete and full cooperation."

Then he pivoted gracefully to place himself nose-to-pudgy-nose with the quaking merchant. Gold teeth flashed in a bright, mad smile as the tip of a cutlass hovered just under Bemis' soft chin.

"Or don't. Fishes get 'ungry too."

Master Bemis went almost cross-eyed as he stared into the ink-dark eyes just inches from his own. A light within those eyes danced on the thin edge of sanity, and was framed by the most heathen collection of braids, beads, tiny trinkets and unshorn locks the merchant had ever seen on a human head. Even the man's goatee sported two tiny beaded pigtails.

Voice quavering, Master Bemis pressed his fingers to the lace bunched at his throat and asked, "Who - who are you?"

"Ohh, me apologies, mate," purred the pirate captain, and swept his hideous hat from an equally hideous red head-scarf and drew himself into a haughty pose. "You have the honor of being robbed by none other than the nefarious … Captain Jack Sparrow."

Replacing his hat he spun about once more and swept his arms wide - for it seemed he could make no gesture that was _not _extravagant - and his cutlass narrowly missed Master Bemis' bedraggled wig.

"Look lively, lads, we have a ship to plunder!"

A howl went up as the pirates swarmed the decks. Swords and pistols in hand they spread over the _Antoinette_ like a plague, yanking open hatches, clattering down into the holds, throwing open boxes and kicking barrels. Heavy thuds below-decks brought a look of longsuffering to the face of the ketch's captain - and winces of almost physical pain to the round cheeks of Master Bemis.

From amidships where the ketch's crew now huddled under guard a voice rang out, the music of the islands clipped to a razor edge: "Sit yo' foolish self down, mon, if you want to keep that head on yo' shouldahs!"

The tubby merchant's jaw dropped. Lustrous black curls spilled from beneath one ragged pirate hat, matched by a pair of lovely but blazing brown eyes that currently glared through the sights of an enormous boarding pistol.

"Sweet heaven, that's a woman!" Master Bemis gasped.

"Ahh, Anamaria!" sighed Captain Sparrow fondly - then winced as the _mulatta_ woman's fist bent a recalcitrant sailor double.

Sparrow leaned towards Master Bemis and touched a grimy finger alongside his nose. "Remember, mate - the female of the species is always deadlier than the male."

There a shout burst from an open hatch, followed by an ear-splitting shriek that turned every head on deck. Through the companionway exploded a virtual whirlwind of daffodil yellow and, still wailing at a glass-shattering pitch, a young woman fled pell-mell across the deck looking for all the world like a flying broomstick wrapped in a dozen yards of yellow silk curtains. Thereupon she flung herself bodily into Master Bemis' arms where she clung like a very loud limpet.

"DADDYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!"

In the shocked silence only the young woman's muffled sobs were heard, as she wept into her father's lace shirt front.

Then a single voice spoke, as Mr. Gibbs muttered, "A woman on board is fearsome bad luck."

"Not if she's nekkid!" came a nasal reply, and a rumble of laughter filled the deck.

"You'll not have my daughter!" cried the merchant, grimacing as he tried earnestly to peel the girl off him and get at the rapier still sheathed at his side. "Jack Sparrow, you are a black knave and cursed to the darkest depths of hell!"

"No, no, mate, you got that all wrong." Sparrow spread his fingers in a depreciating gesture and his curiously slurred accent sped into earnest explanation. "The curse is now an ex-curse, y' see, and none of us 'ere was ever cursed - well, I was, but only for a little while so that doesn't really count - but the point is, the curse is lifted and the _Pearl_ is free, and while we _are_ black-hearted, light-fingered, opportunistic scoundrels, irredeemable scalawags and totally unfit for honest work, we are not -." One be-ringed finger jutted for emphasis. "_Not_ cursed. Savvy?"

"Jack Sparrow?"

The young lady had found her breathy voice at last, peering at him with enormous blue eyes set in a doughy face, which was rendered nearly colorless by the brilliant yellow of her gown. She still, however, held a death grip on her father's lace shirt front, effectively smothering his weak efforts to defend her.

Wincing, Jack said, "_Captain_ Jack Sparrow, love. Let's not forget that part."

"Ohh," the girl simpered, a soft hand fluttering. "I've heard of _youuu_."

Evidently her father had inherited all the chins in the family, as the girl had virtually none at all. Furthermore, the body inhabiting that expensive dress was bony as a stack of muskets; a fact noted when her soulful sigh failed to lift any measurable amount of bosom.

Jack blinked, the girl batted her eyes, and Master Bemis sputtered so that all three of his chins jiggled.

"Now, see here, _Captain_ Sparrow! My daughter is not for the likes of you!"

In contrast the girl smiled winsomely, baring teeth so widely gapped that Jack wondered if she could peel corn from a cob without opening her mouth.

"Ahh …." For an instant Jack plucked gingerly at the air, as if grasping for a particularly elusive reply - then he clapped a hand to his breast and announced with deepest gravity, "Sir, I swear to you upon my honor and upon pain of a most miserable death, I will not touch your daughter."

The merchant wilted in visible relief. "Thank you, Captain Sparrow."  
"Ssst!" hissed one of the crewmen. "'E's a pirate, Mister Bemis - 'e don't 'ave no honor."

Sparrow scowled ferociously and the crewman cringed. "I'm a pirate, mate, not a despoiler of maidens."

Leaving Master Bemis and his men to decipher that logic, Jack turned to shout across the deck. "What do we have, lads? We can't stay 'ere all day."

"Molasses, cap'n," was the reply.

Frowning, Jack Sparrow peered at a bedraggled pirate who had just emerged from the hold. "Molasses?"

"Aye, scores and stacks of barrels of molasses. The 'old is packed with them."

"Molasses."

"Aye, cap'n. We even knocked a couple open to be sure."

A glance downward revealed a sticky brownish substance dribbled on the pirate's bare feet and spattered down his trouser legs. A glance upwards revealed the pirate furtively licking dirty fingers - which he instantly clapped behind his back.

"Molasses." This time Sparrow spoke the word as a growl.

"Aye, cap'n."

Jack spun and took three long, hard strides, halting not an inch from the swell of Master Bemis' lace-and-brocade sheathed belly.

"Molasses," he said.

Multiple chins waggled, and even the girl drew back from the heat in that dark-eyed stare. "Yes, mister - ah, captain," Master Bemis replied, recoiling as Jack leaned even closer. "We are carrying a load of molasses, ultimately bound for the Colonies. It's the latest thing there, sir."

"Molasses."

Master Bemis began to wonder if this monotonic repetition indicated the man truly was mad as the stories said. He found himself staring at a little dangly silver trinket tied in Sparrow's hair, and nodded quickly as he clutched his daughter closer, foregoing all thoughts of his rapier. The pirate's mouth abruptly contorted in a horrifically fierce expression and he swept a rigid forefinger up - only to wave it silently as if strangled by a sudden fit of muteness. Finally he jabbed said finger at the girl's pallid face.

"YOU!" he barked. "You are definitely bad luck!"

Then he swung around and bawled, "All right, men, take what ye can! Sack the galley, turn out the sail locker, look for ropes and lines, and take any unopened barrels of water you find!" Dropping his voice in disgust he growled, "They can bloody well resupply their own water."

His black-browed scowl was thunderous as he planted a fist on one hip and stared across at the _Black Pearl_ heaving gently alongside. A moment passed as his gaze traced the sleek lines of his waiting ship, and his expression oddly quirked into a one-sided grin.

Finally he cocked his head and with only marginal tunefulness he murmured, "We pillage, we plunder, we rifle and loot; Drink up, me 'earties, yo-ho."

Soon barrels and boxes were being carried across, though not laden with the valuables the pirate crew had hoped to find. Any stores or provisions that could be gotten without the risk of putting into port would not be refused, but a dull frustration underlay the swift work of transferring their meager cargo. No prey, no pay was the pirates' maxim, and this day there would be nothing that could be turned to profit. They were a subdued lot as the pirate crew began clambering back aboard the Pearl.

"Not as we'd hoped," said Mister Gibbs, as he came to a halt beside Jack on the Pearl's quarterdeck. "But at least we'll eat well for a few days."

"That we will," Jack replied, drumming his fingers on the hilt of his sheathed sword as he watched as the last flour barrel settled to rest on the deck below.

Gibbs' blunt, grizzled features registered perplexity as he noted a peculiar little smile playing about his captain's lips. Not that peculiar smiles were unusual, given the mercurial nature of the man. However, Jack's current grin widened until a glint of gold teeth caught sunlight and he lifted his gaze towards his topmasts, his tanned angular features painted with something suspiciously like smugness.

Hesitantly grinning in return, Gibbs asked, "Wot ye thinkin', Jack?"

"On luck and ladies," Jack replied, and cocked his head to regard Gibbs with gleaming eyes. "Yon fat man worried for one jewel, but 'e forgot to mind the other."

Puzzled, the older pirate could only squint at his captain and hope for a somewhat more comprehensible reply. Jack's self-satisfied smile became full-grown as he lifted both hands in a foppish pose.

"Pay day, mate," he said. "Enough for every man 'ere to drink 'imself stone blind, and eat like a Roman every day for a month."

With a dainty flourish Jack Sparrow pretended to pluck something off Gibb's collar - and there between his grubby thumb and forefinger exploded shards of sunlight, which fractured off the faceted face of the jewel nestled therein. A brooch it was, bearing a brilliant green gem in a heavy gold setting, which was studded with lesser gems that fragmented light and color across their faces. Whether in its setting or as individual stones, such a piece as this would fetch a splendid price, even on the black market of the Caribbean.

"By all the powers …." Gibbs breathed. When he could pry his gaze away, he gave Jack a sudden fierce grin. "Ye pinched it right off 'is sweatin' carcass, didn't ye?"

"Like pickin' apples, mate." Another delicate gesture and the exquisite ornament vanished back up Jack's sleeve, or wherever it was he kept such things. "Nearly missed it amongst all those chins and lace."

Chuckling heartily, Gibbs turned to look at the little _Antoinette_, now set free and slowly drifting astern. "Ye're a most uncommon thief, Jack."

"Captain!"

A sudden hail from aloft caught their attention, and both Gibbs and Jack looked up.

"Aye, Mister Duncan?" Jack called.

The lookout in the maintop mast cupped his hands, shouting his report to the deck below. "Sail ho! South-southwest, hull down but I can see her sails. She's a big 'un, cap'n!"

"What do you make it?"

"Hard to say yet, cap'n. But that much canvas, I'd bet it's Royal Navy."

"Look alive, you scabrous dogs!" The familiar rough voice of command rang across the decks of the Black Pearl. "Hands aloft, I want full sail. Hand's a-deck, stand by to trim!"

Instantly men swarmed into the rigging and high overhead dark canvas rippled and thumped. Then as commands were shouted and carried out, the sails bellied full and bright water slid whispering past the ship's sleek black hull in a steadily rising pitch.

Jack handled the wheel with a surgeon's dexterity, eyes aloft to the set of the _Black Pearl_'s wings as he felt the deck tilt and surge beneath his feet. No matter that in an instant they could turn from hunter to hunted. No matter that the day could end with them fighting for or even losing their lives. Here there was only the vast dark sea and a horizon that bent away to the ends of the world. Here Jack Sparrow could fly.

Miles across a glittering expanse of ocean, the _HMS Dauntless_ put her breast to the heaving waves and made the most of a square-rigger's wind. On the war ship's decks a trim, erect figure in Navy blue stood with legs braced and hands clasped in the small of his back, his keen eyes sweeping the lift and fall of the far horizon. Well abaft and off his port beam two Royal Navy frigates hove their steady way like faithful hounds following their master. A fourth, lesser ship limped half a mile to starboard - downwind, the _Dauntless_' commander amended with a mental grimace, for the living cargo the _Royal Venture_ carried was noisome in the extreme.

"I wonder if Sir John Biltmore is as wealthy as they say."

At this new voice Commodore Norrington turned his smooth-shaven face to see the young commander of his marine detachment standing just behind him. Lieutenant Gillette presently aimed his own studying gaze across the water.

"He is, Gillette. That is but one of several merchant vessels he owns."

"Ah. And I've heard his family is involved in many other ventures. Is it true, then, that he also owns a diamond so grand that the King himself offered to buy it?"

"Yes. The African Star. Said to be nearly perfect in cut and clarity." Norrington paused in contemplation. "No one knows precisely how he came by it."

"Remarkable. I do wonder that he would choose to captain a slave ship, though." Gillette's round features twisted in a brief moue of distaste. "You'd think he would prefer something … cleaner."

Only the faintest flicker of dislike marred Norrington's composed features. "There is no accounting for taste."

"Aye, sir." Gillette nodded then added, "I've heard the crews of slavers are generally little more than cutthroats and brigands."

Without further remark Norrington let the conversation end, for personal opinions had no place on a Navy deck. They simply did their duty. The merchant vessel had hailed them that morning appealing for an escort, on account of having suffered storm damage three days before, and so they obliged.

"Ahoy, the deck!"

Norrington lifted his gaze towards the cloud of white sails above. "Aye, tops?"

"Ship, sir, on a reach north-northwest. I can't quite make what she is, sir, but she has a fair bit of sail."

Mouth pursed, Norrington considered. They were much too far to make out colors, if the ship flew any, and even if they abandoned escort it would take hours to win a position that would enable them to overtake the distant vessel.

"Sir, there's another sail! Smaller, and it appears to be bearing in our direction. Give or take a few points, sir."

"Very well. Continue our present course and keep watch. If he wishes to hail us, he can see us."

With that Norrington about-faced and returned to the business of patrolling the blue, sometimes bibulous-natured waters of the Caribbean Sea. They should see the _Royal Venture_ safely to Port Royal by midday tomorrow.

TBC …


	2. Chapter 2 Pieces Put in Place

**PIRATES OF THE **CARIBBEAN******: THE AFRICAN STAR**

**By ErinRua**

CHAPTER 2

Port Royal stood out at the end of a narrow spit of land that curved protectively around the harbor which gave her life.  Along the quays a virtual forest of masts tilted and swayed, large craft and small making berth for whatever business their masters commanded.  Nor was it always wise to ask what that business may be, for though the Governor of the island made his home here, the hard men of the sea kept many secrets and there were narrow streets where a silver shilling could buy information, a woman's favors - or a man's life.

Other streets, however, were home to the craftsmen and tradesmen who made up the backbone of Port Royal, and here young blacksmith Will Turner plied his trade.  His black hair was queued back from chiseled features that gleamed with the fiery breath of the forge, as he carefully turned the new sword in his hands.  A dip of chin to sleeve wiped the thin sheen of sweat from his youthful smudge of moustache and goatee, but his eyes never left the glowing metal.

Many hours had already gone into the forming of the blade, heating and shaping it to patient perfection, keenly watching the play of heat on steel as the colors glowing within the metal told him when temperatures were correct.  Next he spent hours with a file coaxing the edge and tip he wanted, exact to the exclusion of anything, even meals, until now the blade wanted only a final temper.  Yet as with every other step he worked with unwearied intensity, playing heat upon steel and steel upon coals with a lover's careful touch.  His apprenticeship was complete and though he pursued his journeyman's work still in the shadow of his master's employ, he strove always to perfect his craft.

Suddenly sunlight spilled across the floor of the shop, the light of the outside world followed by a long shadow and footsteps.  "Master Brown?"

Will did not recognize the voice but he turned from the forge with a welcoming smile.  "He is not in, sir.  May I help you?"

The burly stranger looked as did many in this town, sun-bronzed with his hair pulled back in a sailor's queue and wearing a seaman's tarred cap.  However, his coat was a finer cut than most and he stood with his square jaw firmly set and his feet placed in the straight-backed stance of command.  He was also frowning, as if a lanky, sweet-faced, soft-spoken boy was not what he had expected to find manning a blacksmith shop.

"I would speak to Master Brown, if he can be found.  I need a blacksmith."

Something flickered in Will's eyes and was gone, the gentle smile remaining on his face.  "I am a blacksmith.  I am Will Turner.  What may I do for you?"

The man's brows lowered and he folded his arms across his muscular chest.  "All right.  Bring your tools, blacksmith.  We need work done on some shackles aboard ship."

"Of course, sir.  I shall be glad to oblige you.  Give me thirty minutes and I'll be through here."

With that Will gave a final smile and turned once more to his forge.  The stranger's voice abruptly barked in command.

"Belay thirty minutes; we need you now, boy!"

The young man paused an instant, his back to his would-be customer.  But then he straightened and turned with a carefully bland face.

In tones of greatest courtesy, he said, "Thirty minutes, sir.  I must finish the temper on this blade."

"And I say you'll come now!"

Will made no move nor did his expression notably change, but suddenly the stranger became aware of tiny points of firelight glinting in the boy's dark eyes.  And also the fact that a completed and battle-ready sword hung in a scabbard just on the far side of the forge.

Very gently and precisely the tall young smith said, "Thirty … minutes.  Sir.  If you will please tell me the name of your ship and where she is berthed?"

After the stranger left, Will sighed and shook his head.  "Ugly man," he murmured to the smooth length of heated steel awaiting his ministrations.  "Now, let's see about getting you a proper finish."

***

The _Royal Venture_ stood at anchor not far offshore, a tall, somehow grim merchant vessel, at least in Will's eyes, who studied it curiously as he swayed in the stern of the ship's boat that had awaited him.  A pungent stench drifted on the breeze and was gone, but it was not the heady salt-and-tar aroma of the waterfront.  Yet even as he dismissed it from mind, the odor returned.  His grimace must have been seen by the ordinary seaman at the oars, for the man chuckled as he bent his shoulders to his labor.

"Don't mind the smell, lad.  You'll be aboard and gone again, unlike us poor wretches that sail 'er."

Again the rancid stink washed over them and Will fought the urge to cough.  "What is your cargo?  Bad cheese?"

"Slaves, boy.  Gold on two legs."

No more was said as the boat came alongside, and Will slung his tools over his shoulder to climb aboard.  The teak decks looked clean enough, the smooth wood scrubbed nearly white by frequent holy-stoning and the scuppers washed clean.  But the smell - sweet heaven, it clung like an invisible fog, cloying and sticking to the back of his throat so that he took only shallow breaths.  How anyone could sail, let alone keep down a meal aboard this ship was beyond Will's comprehension.

Standing amidships like a brooding tree stump stood the man who had summoned him, now with a sword belted at his waist.  Square-jawed and imposing, here in daylight he fairly oozed a queer predatory alertness.  As Will drew near their eyes met and the short hairs on the back of his neck sprang straight up.  The thought flashed that he should have come armed with more than just blacksmith's tools.  Nonetheless, with a lift of his chin Will came to a halt before him.

"I am here as requested."

"So I see," the man grumbled.  Then he tilted his head indicating a rearward direction and said, "Follow me."

As they walked aft two seamen fell in behind, both armed with boarding pistols and short swords.  Will frowned but reckoned the business of trafficking in slaves required such measures.  However, he made sure to keep his guide in front of him.

"First Mate Thomas Fry," the stocky man said over his shoulder, apparently intending that as an introduction.  "The captain o' this ship is Sir John Biltmore."

"Ah.  I see," said Will.

He kept his thoughts silent however, for it would be imprudent to voice his opinions of men who tossed titles about as a way to impress lesser men.  If he had learned anything in his young life, it was that titles and labels meant little, for the mettle of a man was in his deeds, not words.

A hatch appeared before them and the two armed seamen went down first.  As Will stepped onto the ladder at Fry's heels, the reek wafting from the ship's bowels nearly bludgeoned him to his knees.  It clogged his lungs and burned his eyes like a ghastly fume and for an instant he wondered if the air was poisoned enough to kill him.

"Blessed be," he whispered, for his throat had constricted so as to prevent further sound.

  
First Mate Fry heard him, however, and cast a hard grin over his shoulder as he disappeared into the murk below.  Since holding his breath was not going to be an indefinite option, Will tried to restrict air intake to his mouth and dropped the last steps down.

  
Darkness.  Heated, humid, putrid shadows that only after a moment proved to be dimly illuminated by a carried lantern: that was the world where Will moved now.  The below-decks he realized was oddly divided to include a shallow 'tween-decks, which was further sectioned by long shelves.  As they made their way forward the gloom deepened, and then Will nearly ceased breathing altogether.

  
The darkness had eyes.  The darkness was alive.

There were people down here, scores of living people crammed like cotton bales onto those shelves, sitting hunched with up-thrust knees, or laying cheek-by-thigh amongst their fellows.  All were nude or nearly so, and yet so dark-skinned that only their eyes and the dull sheen of sweat gleamed in the dimness.  Most chilling of all, however, was the utter lack of sound.  No voice spoke, no murmur sounded.

As Will followed his guides and their lantern onward he felt those eyes following him, and fancied a whisper paced after him just under the edge of hearing.  He lengthened his stride - and almost collided with First Mate Fry.

"Here," Fry said.  "Need to get these shackles off."

Turning, Will focused on the wretches towards whom Fry was pointing.  Four black men sat there, dull-eyed and gaunt and motionless as graven stone.  About their ankles were clasped heavy iron shackles after the fashion of ox-bows, locked by a great heavy pin driven through the open ends.  The contrivance seemed simple enough and he could not see why they needed a blacksmith to remove them, especially when it seemed over half the human cargo had already been taken ashore.  But as Fry beckoned him closer to the lamplight he realized the shackles were heavily rusted and could not be removed.  Thus they needed tools not kept aboard ship.

Swallowing his gorge Will stepped forward, bag of tools heavy in his hand.

"I'll need that light here," he said.

Slavery was a fact of life in the islands, though it pleased Will not, but those Africans he had seen were at least clothed and fed and gainfully employed.  Nothing prepared him for the sight of people packed in conditions a hog farmer would abhor.  He knelt down on planking damp with things he did not care to think about and tried not to look at those alien, pitiable faces just arms-reach away.  He tried not to see dark skin chafed ghastly raw and livid, and tried not to think why these four people had evidently worn their irons for so long that the flesh was nearly worn from their bony shins.  And he tried not to let his sweating hands shake or slip as he struck the cruel bonds away.  If his blows fell heavier than was warranted there was none but he to say.

As the last crashing clangor of iron on iron died away, a heavy hand smote Will on the shoulder.

  
"Well done, boy," said First Mate Fry and tucked his thumbs in his belt.  "These four were nothin' but trouble the whole way.  Reckon we cured them of their mischief, though."  And he chuckled, a deep, wet sound.

Tight-jawed but silent, Will collected his tools and stood.  A thousand things that did not bear saying crowded behind his teeth, and so he simply held Fry's gaze for single seething heartbeat, then named his price.  Silver coins dropped into his outstretched palm, whereupon he turned and strode away, out of that noisome wooden cavern, out of darkness and stench and a vision of living nightmare to which he dearly wished he had never been privy.

As the ship's boat creaked its way towards shore, Will turned to stare outwards past the harbor's mouth.  Breathing great, belly-deep gulps of clean air he found himself leaning over the side, towards sunlight and blue-green water and a sky that bent away into perfect freedom.  For that long moment he wished he had wings.

***

The sailor put Will ashore beside a longboat from the _Royal Venture, this larger craft awash with more black slaves overseen by armed sailors.  The young blacksmith averted his eyes self-consciously and made his way onto the road above.  He was surprised to recognize a fine carriage parked not far up the street, just outside a walled yard he knew even before seeing the sign: _Wm. S. Devon and Sons, Publick Sellers of Slaves, Horses, Cattle, and Hoggs_.  Whatever was Governor Swann doing here?_

"Sir, I will not be thwarted by this - this pig of a man upon his claims that some fishing smack has precedence over my custom!"  Sonorous tones rang even into the street as Will walked.  "I will pay amply for his precious time, and I would thank you to instruct him to commence forthwith!"

A familiar mild voice replied.  "I quite understand your frustrations, given the damage storms have done to your ship and your schedule.  But I'm afraid my jurisdiction really does not extend to the shipyards."

As Will approached the open gates a sharper voice broke in.  "Guv'nor, I got men workin' on four other vessels right now, with two more put back in the water just today.  My riggers barely 'ave time to stand on solid ground before they're back up again!  All I'm askin' this - this _gentleman is that he waits until day after tomorrow!  I'll have a berth for 'is ship then."_

Cautiously Will peered within, and there saw Governor Swann's bewigged and elegant figure facing another equally elegant but notably larger man.  Towering over six feet tall yet bearing his mass lightly, the stranger stood squarely in a green, heavily gold-embroidered knee-length coat, silk waistcoat and pristine white stockings, all that finery punctuated by a jeweled sword which clearly bespoke money.

He was also clearly furious.  "I am already three days behind my schedule for Hispaniola, and on the word of a shipwright I am to make it five?"

The master shipwright's bearded face showed no less frustration.  "If ye want yer bloody tub fixed, you will!"

"How dare -!"  The stranger might have been thought a handsome man by some, were it not for the habitual lines of temper marring his rugged features.  "Were you on board my ship, I would have you flayed for your insolence!"

The master shipwright's response was to spit sideways and glare.  Governor Swann moved between the two men, hands raised in supplication, and Will was further surprised to see Elizabeth standing to one side.  Cool and beautiful as a lily she was, in an ivory dress that somehow warmed her liquid brown eyes.  Spotting Will by the gate she offered him a brief, wan smile, and stepped away from the continuing argument.

As Will slipped inside the compound, Governor Swann's persistent calm remained a marked contrast to the stranger's ire. "Sir John, Master Baylor does his utmost to satisfy all customers in the most expedient manner possible. I'm sure we can reach a compromise here."

Sir John's glower tightened.  "Governor, my cargo, my slaves are the foundation of the wealth in these islands, as any sugar grower could tell you, and that is a fact you would do well to remember.  A governor who allows a mere shipwright to abuse his betters - I should think that London might be interested to learn how you manage your affairs here."

Governor Swann's brow lifted.  "Do you threaten me … sir?"

Will's eyes widened as he and Elizabeth stopped together.  When he leaned to speak to her he breathed a clean scent of lavender.

  
"Who is that?" he whispered.

"The master of the slave ship _Royal Venture, Sir John Biltmore."  Her dark gaze narrowed.  "And an absolute boor."_

"I demand what is my due!" Sir John sputtered angrily.  "I will _pay handsomely - does no one hear me in this place?  But I must have my ship refitted and repaired as soon as possible, or I shall lose custom.  The cargo I am to pick up from the sale of my slaves will not wait forever, nor shall my buyers in Port Paix!"_

Further debate was interrupted by a rumble of iron wagon wheels on cobblestones, and Will and Elizabeth moved back from the entrance of a heavily-laden wagon.  In its open bed were crammed perhaps two dozen gleaming dark figures, the latest contingent of slaves off-loaded from the _Royal Venture_.

"We will continue this presently," the big man growled, then strode to meet the wagon.  "Get this lot unloaded immediately.  Mister Stone, make it smartly."

The spacious grounds of the auction yard were bare dirt surrounded by warehouses, stacks of boxes and barrels and frowning brick walls.  What caught Will's eye, however, was the wooden stockade that filled one corner.  Roughly shingled roofing rested on beams to form partial shade for whatever might be kept within, and the armed men standing about the walls and grounds indicated what and who the inmates were.  This was where the slaves - and at other times probably livestock - were held prior to sale.

A sigh captured his attention and he turned to realize Governor Swann stood beside them.

"Good day, sir," he said with a brief bow.

Elizabeth spoke first, and tartly.  "It would be a better day if Father had not stopped at this hideous place."

"Now, my dear."  Swann smiled at her appealingly.  "Master Baylor practically threw himself under our wheels begging my help.  Of course I had to stop.  And Sir John Biltmore is a prominent guest in our city."

Elizabeth's glance fairly smoldered as she watched Biltmore strut around the wagon.  He carried his ill humor with him like a smell, ordering both his men and the dismounting slaves about with sharp gestures and sharper words.

"All the titles in the world can't make a gentleman of the likes of him."

Again Swann smiled, though the effort appeared forced.  "Elizabeth, let us do remember our manners in public."

  
His glance flicked towards the still-fuming master shipwright, who presently stood with his arms folded and a decidedly mutinous look on his face.  Catching the governor's eye the shipwright sighed and stumped off to wait in the shade.

Will's attention remained on Sir John as he said, "Well, at least we know the master sets the example for his men."  Upon seeing Swann's look of inquiry, he flushed to realize he had probably spoken more frankly than was proper. "He sent his first mate to fetch me to strike off some rusted shackles.  The first mate was … rather abrupt."

"Oh!"

Both men started at Elizabeth's gasp and turned to face the grim, stoic line of slaves being herded off the wagon and into a ragged group.  One of the black men lay on the ground, his gaunt shoulders knotting painfully as he struggled to push himself to his knees.

***

TBC …….

**_Author's Note:_**_  I may update slowly but I *will* update, my goal being to post at least once every 5 days.  This is the **first **time I've ever posted a work-in-progress so please be patient!  I know where I want to go with this, but I'm a bit of a perfectionist so it takes a little work to get there.  ;-)_


	3. Chapter 3 Wherein Stuff Happens

**PIRATES OF THE **CARIBBEAN******: THE AFRICAN STAR**

**By ErinRua**

CHAPTER 3

  
"Get him up!" roared Biltmore.  "Mister Stone, were my orders not explicit enough for you?  You were to sort this lot and _leave the sick ones!  I want them back on board ship immediately!"_

"Yes, sir."

Two sailors bent to heave the fallen slave upright, but his knees buckled and failed him once more.  Mister Stone's boot instantly lashed out and connected with a meaty thump.

"Get up, you!  On yer feet!"

At Elizabeth's muffled cry Will caught her hand.  Among the inscrutable dark faces waiting beyond black eyes glittered, and Will dared not imagine what thoughts moved behind them.  Nor was the cruel tableau finished, for soon as that slave was shoved roughly into the wagon the sailors seized another who sat slumped nearby, and flung him in hard enough his bones thudded against the wooden wagon bed.  They then grabbed a third - who stumbled in their grasp to reveal the sweetly rounded brown face of an emaciated teenaged girl.

"Oh, please STOP!"

"Elizabeth!"

But she twisted beyond her father's grasp and flew among the rough sailors like a dove among swine.  In their shock they stumbled back in dismay.

"Stop!" she cried.  "For pity's sake, there is no need!"

Heedless of the dirt she sank beside the stricken girl, who now slumped bent and boneless below the wagon's tailgate.  Gently Elizabeth raised the girl's chin, her slim pale fingers stark against alien black skin.

"We'll fetch you a doctor," she said softly.  "Don't be afraid."

Blank black eyes stared back at her without comprehension.  Elizabeth's delicate features twisted with pity as she looked up.

"She needs a doctor.  All these do."

"No, they do not."

Astonished, Elizabeth looked up at the tall, forbidding figure of Sir John Biltmore, who now loomed grimly over both women.  When he spoke, Biltmore's tone could have cut steel.

"You will step away from my property, Miss Swann, and you will remove yourself from my affairs."

Elizabeth's mouth dropped open and she was on her feet in an instant, her slender figure rigid with indignation.  "Sir, I will not tolerate cruelty to even the dumbest of brutes!  I fail to understand how you could stand by and allow these -."

"Governor Swann!"  Biltmore's frigid gaze swept through and past Elizabeth, dismissing her as if she were an ill-disciplined lap dog.  "Will you kindly control your daughter?"

"Elizabeth …" Swann's face was troubled as he held out his hand.  "Please, my dear."

"Father -."  Her beseeching look swept from him to Will to Biltmore, who stood emotionless as a stone monolith.  "Please … she's barely more than a child.  She needs help.  She needs a doctor."

Biltmore did not so much as acknowledge he heard her, his hard stare fixed on Governor Swann, waiting.  Swann held his daughter's gaze, silently asking her compliance.

"I'll pay for it myself!" she blurted, and picked her skirts from the dirt as she swept to her father's side.  "I'll pay for the doctor.  Please, Father, I can't just leave her - look at her!"

Will and Governor Swann both looked, unable to shield the pity in their eyes for the wretched girl they beheld.  Her thin cotton dress was so worn as to be nearly colorless and hung on her bones like scraps of bed sheet.  As she sat crumpled in the dust she stared blankly into the infinity of her own misery, and while they watched a deep cough suddenly seized her, the racking paroxysms to follow threatening to shake her narrow frame apart.

Tears stood in Elizabeth's eyes as she whispered, "Father …"

Again Will looked to the rest of the slaves watching, and felt a chill when blank black eyes met his own.  Will was first to look away.

"What benefit would be in it for me?"  All eyes lifted to Biltmore's lordly tone, and the man tilted his chin.  "If I should permit such … pointless charity, what gain would I find?"

Swann took his daughter's hand as she turned her face away in anguish.  Will wished he dared go to her, yet he had no comfort to offer.  Someone cleared his throat, and there the master shipwright stood, scowling mightily.

"Tomorrow midday," the shipwright said.

Biltmore raised a haughty eyebrow.  "I beg your pardon."

"I might be able to take yer ship tomorrow midday."

"Ah.  You might.  I see."

"If you let me bring a doctor for that girl."  Elizabeth wheeled with renewed fire in her brown eyes.  "You will have your precious ship repaired, and that girl will get the help she needs."

An unexpected and unpleasant smile grew upon Sir John's strong-boned face.  "There, I knew we could come to an understanding.  And it won't cost me a ruddy farthing extra.  Master Baylor, I will be expecting your pilot tomorrow at noon.  Good day, all.  Governor."

With that Sir John Biltmore strode away, leaving his men to push and bully the rest of the slaves towards the stockade.  Master Baylor made a sound half-sigh and half-growl, and shook his head.

"That is a man used to puttin' 'is boot on others' necks.  I'll get 'is bleedin' ship fixed, but only so we can see 'is backside that much sooner.  G'day, Guv'nor, Miss Swann."

Which left Governor Swann to eye his daughter with an expression of great misgiving.  "Elizabeth … are you sure this is wise?"

"When are kindness and compassion not wise, Father?"  The sweetly-sculpted line of her jaw was set in the stubborn mien both her father and Will knew too well.  "If they are not, they are at least the right thing.  I fail to understand why Sir John objected so." 

Swann's expression saddened as he sought gingerly for diplomacy in the face of brutal truth.  "Because, my dear, a slave ship's insurance does not cover those who die of illness."  Her eyes widened in growing comprehension as he gently went on.  "They view it as … financially imprudent to put money into an investment they feel is already lost.  In short, a dying slave is of no value and hence any expense in their behalf would be wasted."

Many a time Will had admired the sudden fire that could lift Elizabeth's lovely chin, like a swan facing the croaking of mere foolish toads, but now it rung his heart painfully to see.

"Men hang each other for stealing a horse.  They will fight each other for mistreating a hound.  Yet they will turn their backs on the suffering of those poor ailing Africans simply because it is _financially imprudent."  With a toss of her head she ordered, "Will, help me get this poor girl up.  We'll make her a pallet of blankets in one of the storerooms here and then I'll go bring Doctor Hastings.  Come, don't just stand there."_

Misgiving and pride warred equally in Will's smile as he stepped to his lady's side.

***

The afternoon sun slanted in long, dusty beams through the high windows of the storeroom, gently gilding the soft lines of Elizabeth's face.  Under Will's attentive eye she sat on an upturned crate, watching the thin black girl on the floor very slowly eat a bowl of soup.  Fragile fingers hued in mahogany and pink lifted a pewter spoon, then as carefully returned to the bowl, each motion seeming to take infinite effort and concentration.  Outside the rumble of wheels and the bark of harsh voices told that unloading of the _Royal Venture's _living cargo continued.

Will found his awareness split by a mix of pity and caution, for he reckoned his duty was to watch the watchers, lurking in the form of two of Biltmore's armed crewmen who stood smirking just outside the door.  However, not once did the slave girl speak or look up.  Tall, rawboned Doctor Hastings meanwhile repacked his bag atop a stack of crates, his thin face solemn.

"I fear it is in the hands of the Almighty," he said.  "Her lungs are badly congested.  She is malnourished, debilitated.  I don't doubt that her … other functions are equally impaired by her weakened condition."  He paused to shake his head gently.  "I can do nothing, Miss Swann.  She is very simply dying of neglect."

Elizabeth's white teeth briefly worried her lower lip, as she continued to observe the girl's painful efforts.  "I know you would help if you could.  Thank you for coming, Doctor Hastings.  I'm sorry to have wasted your time."

As the doctor closed his bag Elizabeth stood, fumbling for a small silk purse.

"No, Miss Swann."  He halted her with a faint, sad smile.  "Nothing I have done here merits payment."

With a touch to his plain black tricorn hat, Doctor Hastings turned and walked outside.  As quick as his shadow emptied from the doorway, another took his place.

"Time's up, miss," growled a hard voice, and Will looked up to see First Mate Thomas Fry's scowling face.  "You've wasted your shillin', now there's nothin' here for you."

"But -."  Elizabeth's eyes grew wide and stricken.  "Please let her rest here.  It will cost you nothing - just let her rest.  Please."

"Well."  Fry's square face bent into a leering grin.  "Fancy that.  'Please' from a real lady.  Twice, no less."

A single step placed Will between the man and Elizabeth, his fists clenched.  "You will not speak so to Miss Swann.  Go back to your business, we will leave here presently."

"We will leave here presently," Fry mocked, and one of the sailors grinned at the door.  "Certainly, your lordship, seein' as you're such a fancy gentleman and all."

Will's eyes narrowed, but the two men stepped back and outside with derisive sneers and chuckles.  Still watching them warily, Will reached a hand to Elizabeth.

"Come, we can do no more here."

When she did not respond, he turned to look at her.  His heart wrenched to see the grief marring her sweet features, though she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth in an attempt to stifle her emotion.

"Elizabeth … you tried."

She shook her head but allowed him to take her slender fingers in his own strong hand.  "I'm sorry," she whispered, though the slave girl sat with no response at all.  "I'm sorry."

Then they stepped outside into bright sunlight - and the world blew up.  A cask of rum, a keg of gunpowder, Will never knew what the detonation was but suddenly the yard roared with sound and motion.  He seized Elizabeth, heedless of her gasp, and swung her against the building, shielding her with his own body as the stockade exploded in a howling torrent of dark, half-naked bodies.  Shouts rang out as several shots boomed raggedly and the crewmen of the _Royal Venture charged to meet figures black as gleaming coal.  Glass shattered somewhere and more shots boomed, a man's scream cutting horribly short.  Plaster burst from the bricks by Will's head and he grabbed Elizabeth's hand even as he leaped into motion._

"Run!"

And the elegant daughter of a colonial governor, who had once seen battle on a pirate ship, simply picked up her skirts and sprinted.  Dust, shouts and screams filled the air, more shots boomed and a black woman pitched headlong into their path and collapsed.

"STOP THEM!" bellowed First Mate Fry.  "SHOOT THE BUGGERS!"

Dark forms leaped and lunged and bare feet raced, punctuated by the shouts and shots of Biltmore's men.  Will yanked Elizabeth sideways as a sailor spun and dropped, his head gone all to blood.  The main gate seemed leagues away, the yard choked with gunfire and surging dark bodies and thuds and screams of conflict.  He veered back towards the buildings, hoping to stay out of the melee.

Sudden movement flashed and he swung Elizabeth aside - then his head burst into stars and he heard her shriek as he fell.  He hit hard and rolled, blearily scrambling to get up, fearing that if he stayed down he might never rise again.  Staggering as if drunk he nonetheless gained his feet - and stared at a wild-eyed black face and a club gripped in a hard black fist.

"He's not one of them!" he heard Elizabeth cry.  "Don't!"

They were surrounded by men, half a dozen mahogany-hued bodies whose bare muscles swelled with horrifyingly raw power, some wielding clubs or bricks in their hands.  They were savage as hyenas and wild as lions, and utterly, completely alien to anything Will knew.  He found and clenched Elizabeth's hand, trying to push her behind him but there was no behind, those fierce black faces were all around.  Desperately he wished for a sword, but a blacksmith simply did not carry a sword about the streets of Port Royal, and now he was about to die in a slave uprising for want of one.

But a deep voice suddenly spoke, one of the slaves pronouncing something in the queer, tumbling syllables of his native tongue.  He raised a hand to point to the terrified couple - to Elizabeth - and the circle of threat simply broke and ran.  The black man spoke once more, this time making eye contact with her, before he too turned and fled away.

"What - what -?" Elizabeth gasped.

"He must have seen you help that girl.  Come!"

They wheeled to run, and across the yard stood Sir John Biltmore and as their eyes met, his expression was pure rage.  Then he turned and the last thing they saw was Biltmore firing a pistol point-blank into a fleeing slave's face.  As the two broke into the street they heard more shots boom behind them.  Down the road a company of Royal Marines came running towards them at the double-quick, and only then did Will halt, pulling Elizabeth into his arms and against his pounding heart.  He felt her trembling with each gasping breath and tightened his embrace as a fierce wave of possession swept him.  Meanwhile, however, he found himself staring at one consuming question.

How in heaven's name were they going to explain what just happened?

***

TBC …

**A/N:**  _I hereby extend my deepest thanks to all who have left reviews or emailed with your encouragement, comments and critiques.  Your support is much appreciated and your candor helps me keep striving to be a better writer.  (And yes, I do make revisions when a glitch or type-o is pointed out!) ~ Erin_  :-)


	4. Chapter 4 An Inopportune Moment

**PIRATES OF THE **CARIBBEAN******: THE AFRICAN STAR**

**By ErinRua**

CHAPTER 4

"Fifty-seven slaves!" thundered Sir John Biltmore, and the chandelier overhead jingled.  "That's how many escaped heaven knows where!  And I've thirteen dead, twenty-two wounded, not to mention one of my own crew dead and five wounded.  My cost for this cargo was over eight hundred pounds.  Their worth at sale was to be thrice again that.  Blessed heaven, man, I WILL be compensated!"

"Indeed you shall," Commodore Norrington said coolly.  "It is my understanding that your cargo is amply insured."

The interview presently underway took place in Norrington's austere office, but it was highly likely all of Fort Charles was aware of the slaver captain's ire.  Governor Swann stood with his face to a tall window and his back to the current argument, but Will Turner felt his own lingering headache intensify to imagine the turmoil within the man's mind.  Elizabeth, dear Elizabeth, caught in the midst of a slave revolt - Will's heart froze to think of it.  Biltmore, however, thought only of his lost profit.

"Insurance!" the big man boomed.  "Insurance will not cover those who are damaged and useless and it takes weeks to compensate!  Meanwhile I lose part of the revenue this venture was meant to turn.  I have buyers in Port Paix promised a cargo that I may not be able to meet in full - because _that woman was allowed to interfere with my business!"_

His meaty forefinger jabbed rigidly at Elizabeth, hovering near her father.  "In one instant she inflamed Africans I spent weeks bringing to a docile and manageable state!"

Shoes scraped on tile as Governor Swann turned an expression of angry disbelief towards Biltmore.  "How dare you blame Elizabeth for the actions of your own slaves!"

"How dare I?"  Biltmore drew his heavy form erect in defiance.  "With my own eyes I watched six of those murderous savages surround your daughter and her swain, yet with no more than a word she turned them aside."  His features grew florid and hard.  "Tell me, Governor, how long has she been involved in anti-slavery sedition?"

In the sudden stunned silence the air temperature seemed to drop twenty degrees.  Elizabeth's mouth fell open in shock, but her father spoke first.

"That is a charge as infamous as it is absurd."

"Then explain the marvelous coincidence that she is there to distract my men, just when my cargo breaks out in rebellion!"

Finding her tongue at last, Elizabeth cried angrily, "I did no such thing!  I was there to help a dying girl, which is more than your black heart can possibly fathom."

Biltmore's lip curled.  "Young ladies should be taught their place, miss.  Be glad I don't teach you with a harness strap!"

"You will not!"  Will was two long steps forward before he knew he had decided to move, but once there he held Biltmore's seething gaze without flinching.

"Governor Swann," said Biltmore ponderously.  "Is there no one here whom you can control?"  His eyes narrowed.  "Or should I look for your own complicity in this?"

"Sir John!" Norrington barked, and then dropped his voice to hard steel.  "Remember to whom you speak."

"I forget nothing," Biltmore rumbled, dropping his hand to the ornate sword at his side.  "Mark my words, I forget nothing."

"Good," Swann replied thinly.  "Then you will understand why I will urge the shipyard to complete your refitting and see you on your way with all haste."

"I would certainly hope so," Biltmore replied.

His frigid gaze swept over Elizabeth and Will like prodding cold fingers, before returning to the two older men.  Though he remained physically composed, the sense of barely-contained violence surrounded him like a fume.

"Commodore," he said, "I trust measures are in place for the return of my escapees?"

"I have soldiers and marines searching by land and sea as we speak," Norrington replied.  "If your … cargo are to be found, we will find them."

"See that you do," Biltmore replied and took a step back.  "Good day."

Biltmore's exit seemed to suck a black cloud from the room.  As his footsteps clapped smartly away Governor Swann sagged and braced his knuckles on Norrington's polished table.

"The absolute audacity of that man," Swann said.  "His father is a good man, but … Elizabeth, I am so sorry you were privy to that."

Softly she laid her fingers on his sleeve. "It's all right, Father."

The commodore studied the older man and his face softened in compassion.

"Take heart, my lord.  Miss Swann is safe, thanks apparently in large part to Mister Turner's quick actions -."  Will looked up in surprise as Norrington continued, "And with any luck we will be rid of Sir John Biltmore within a few days."

"I pray so," Swann said tiredly.  "If you have no more questions for Elizabeth, then, I think I shall take her home and get us both a nice, quiet cup of tea."

"Of course, sir."

The governor, Elizabeth and Will walked down the stone corridor in silence, glad to step outside into the warm golden haze of late afternoon.  There Swann paused and stared sightlessly across the harbor.

"I was remiss as a father to permit Elizabeth to so much as enter that auction yard.  I should never have agreed that she could go back."

The girl blinked wide brown eyes, and then her delicate brows drew down sternly.  "Father -."

"Nonetheless …" Swann's grey wig nearly matched the weary pallor of his face as he turned to Will.  "You have my thanks, Mister Turner, for bringing my daughter out safely."

"Thank you, sir."  Will gave a small bow - carefully, so as not to jostle the ache lurking behind the knot on the back of his head.  "I also regret that she was so endangered."

"Oh, for pity's sake!" Elizabeth burst out.  "I have had just enough of people talking about me as if I'm either not here, deaf, or of no consequence.  Father, I am not sorry I offered a moment of kindness to that poor girl.  My only regret is that it could not be enough."  She lifted her chin regally and added, "He is a dreadful and uncouth man, and I begin to think his choice of profession is a clear indicator of his lack of character, and his crew are bloody ruffians."

"Elizabeth," chided the governor.  "Language, dear."

"Yes, Father.  But there are much stronger words that could be applied to men who deliberately withhold care from the sick and injured.  Tell me, Will, could you not find stronger language?"

Feeling that standing between the governor of Jamaica and his daughter was probably not the safest ground, Will met her liquid gaze with what he hoped was his best neutral expression.

Mustering a smile, he said, "That would hardly be proper, Miss Swann."

Elizabeth gave him a look that could have scorched steel.  "Proper, my eye.  I am now convinced that the men who captain slave ships are the dregs of the earth, worse even than pirates, and I would as soon drown them as look at them."

"I understand your sentiments, my dear," said Governor Swann primly.  "But as long as the peculiar institution is permitted by the Crown, it must be endured."

Her blazing brown eyes said what she thought of that, but before she could fire another verbal volley Swann turned and offered his daughter a small smile.

"Ah, look at the time.  I'm sure we are keeping Mister Turner from his duties.  Come, Elizabeth.  Good day, Mister Turner."

"Good day, sir.  Miss Swann."

Will stood watching as they descended the stone steps and made their way to the carriage waiting below.  Releasing a long, heart-felt sigh he looked outward to blue water gilded in gold, an endless moving tapestry of color that reached out to the hazy infinity of the horizon. 

"Well," he said to himself.  "For a blacksmith you certainly run afoul of some interesting people."

Nevertheless, with any luck this would be the end of relations with Sir John Biltmore for all of them, and any part of his unhappy affairs.  Comforting himself with that thought, he set his feet towards home and supper.

***

The following days passed as days in the Caribbean do, golden and slow as the turning of the tides.  Gossip said that all but ten of Biltmore's escaped slaves were found, and those were presumed to have made it to the main island to disappear among the Blue Mountains.  Most suspected they would find refuge hiding amongst the _maroons_ said to lurk in the hills, escaped slaves or those released when the Spaniards fled the island, which now lived fugitives' lives deep in the tropical forests.  However, what comforted the more timid souls of Port Royal most was the assurance that they were in no danger of being attacked in their sleep by hordes of ravening savages.

Now as night settled its blue velvet cloak upon the island, the waters of Port Royal Harbor dulled like cooling steel.  Along the town's warmly-shadowed streets shopkeepers closed their doors, and within a certain blacksmith shop Will Turner likewise readied to end his day.  Quick strokes of a broom swept charcoal dust and bits of filings into a neat pile and the ruddy glow of the cooling forge found its only companion in the form of a single lantern.  Master Brown had already gone home and Will yawned at the thought of retiring to his own humble room.

Yet even with the pleasant weariness of a good day's labor dulling his thoughts, he heard the faint click of the door latch.  He paused with his broom in hand but the door did not open.  Giving a shake of his head he nearly dismissed it as imagination - until he saw the latch slowly lifting to the press of a hand outside.  Master Brown would have marched in like he owned the place - which in fact he did - and a customer would have walked in like, well, a customer, thus whoever was out there could mean only mischief.

Will laid aside the broom and on cat feet he back-stepped to lift down a newly-finished sword hanging nearby.  The door began to move, easing open and he silently followed its movements into shadows against the wall.  With only a faint creak the door swung inward - those were well-made hinges and kept properly oiled - and he heard the softest scuff of a foot beyond.  His heart thudding in his throat he waited, sword poised.

A figure stepped within - and Will moved in one long stride.

"Stand!" he said, and swept razored steel to rest under the intruder's chin. "State your business or I'll have your head, it matters not to me."

"Will, me boy," drawled a curiously-slurred and yet familiar voice.  "Is this how you greet old friends?"

For a beat Will could only stare in shock at the shadowed face of a man he had not thought to see in Port Royal - or possibly anywhere else - again.  He wore the same battered tricorn hat on his head, the same absurd trinkets braided in his hair, and his black eyes gleamed mischief above a familiar roguish, gold-toothed grin.  Here stood the fugitive pirate, Captain Jack Sparrow.

"You!"  That single word was infused with a multitude of sentiments ranging from delight to near-panic.

"Got it on the first try, mate.  At least it looked suspiciously like me last I checked."  Sparrow lifted a fingertip to delicately press back the blade still at his throat, and eyed it appraisingly.  "Lovely work, that.  Must be one of yours.  Now do let me in."

Jack took one step, Will made a twist of the wrist and the sword deftly evaded Jack's hand and returned to tickle the wee braids at his chin.  Sparrow stopped, sighed, and met Will's challenging stare with a pained look.

"Really, son, I thought we were past all this."

"Why are you here?  If you're found, you'll be shot on sight!  And that's if you're lucky."

"I've a good reason, actually."  With a sudden twisting move Jack was under the blade and in the room and half-a-dozen steps away, perusing the dimly-lit shop with a satisfied smile.  "I'm 'ere on business."

"I don't believe you."  Casting a glance of aggravation, Will nonetheless pushed the door closed.  "If the watch is out looking for you, I must warn you, our previous association is well-known and this will be the first place they look."

"Will, Will."  Sparrow faced him and spread his arms as if baring proof of his innocence.  "You must learn to think better of me.  I want to give you a commission.  I'll even pay."

Will's eyes narrowed as he found himself following Sparrow's swaying gait around the shop.  Jack never could keep his hands still, and to Will's disconcertion the pirate's nimble fingers were touching virtually everything as he wandered, a practice the blacksmith almost instantly found nerve-wracking.

"Pay with what?"

He frowned as Jack punctuated his next words with a tap to each of several swords hanging completed in their rack.

"Coin.  Lucre.  Specie.  Good British sterling, me boy.  I'm flush as a prince at the moment.  Well-nigh gentry.  I might even be fit to have tea with."

"Are you drunk?"

Sparrow spun around so quick Will narrowly avoided collision and grinned.  "Not yet."

Steel sang from its scabbard and Will backpedaled with his own sword on guard.  But the pirate simply swung his cutlass up to rest on his shoulder.  There Sparrow cocked one hip and pursed his lips in a meditative frown.

"I'm 'avin' a thought 'ere, Will.  Bein' as I'm master of me own ship and a terror on the high seas and temporarily rich as Croesus, I thought it would be only fitting if I had a sword to match me status."

"You're mad, Jack."

"Of course I am, but hear me out."  Jack stepped back, turned, and with a flourish launched into a quick, whirling series of guards and thrusts.  "This is a good blade and true and I'll not put 'er aside completely."  He brought his cutlass up in salute, and then turned it to lean on it like a cane and gave Will an unctuous smile.  "But a man of my stature needs something … finer.  So I says to meself, says I, who do I know with the expertise and discretion for the job, and of course I thought of me old friend Will Turner!"

Quick fingers stopped just short of tapping Will's chest and Will made a wry face as the hand withdrew.  "Being your friend could shorten a man's lifespan."

"Now, sour grapes, mate.  See, what I had in mind was a sword like this - but not like."

A final steely flourish and cheeky grin, and then Jack brought both heels together, placed the cutlass across his open palms and held it out for inspection.  "I fancy the guard and the blade and the balance is good, but I want something … pretty.  A new sword on this model, you might say, perhaps with bit of gold on the hilt?  Inlays on the handle, bit of filigree on the blade.  Maybe a shiny stone here and there, eh?"

Almost against his will the young blacksmith found himself drawn to the bare steel in Jack's hands, his practiced eye appraising what he saw.  Although of dark, unadorned steel and bearing the tiny nicks of long use, he could see the utilitarian quality of the older blade.  But even as he looked he could imagine a new short sword in its place.  Just a slight elaboration to make a modest basket hilt - with inlays, of course, and a gold wire could be used to wrap black leather on the grip, maybe a fuller grooved down the blade to keep it light and quick in the hand, perhaps a cabochon on the pommel …

"Splendid, then you'll do it!"

Will flinched as Jack swept the cutlass up and away and into its scabbard.

"I said no such thing!"

"Of course not."   Sparrow waved dismissively as he once more sauntered about the room.  "First we must agree on a price, then we must agree on all the specifications, and of course set a date of delivery - mind you, I may need to have it shipped …" his hand described a nebulous direction in midair, "elsewhere, given the nature of me business, but I promise you I have the coin right in me pocket, so the rest is naught but technicalities."

"I don't want your blood money, Jack."

His shoes scuffed sharply as Will turned away, suddenly feeling foolish for having a naked sword in his hand and foolish for having this absurd conversation.  Turning away from Sparrow he stalked across the room to hang his sword back up.  Jack cast an aggrieved look at his back.

"Blood money?  Boy, I promise you this money is bloodless as a turnip."  He cocked his head for an instant's thought.  "A trifle sweaty, perhaps, the chubby gent who contributed to its gain seemed a bit warm at the time, but I swear to you there was not one least ickle drop of blood involved."

Will sighed and then turned to face him, his expression gentling to a reluctant smile.  Quietly he said, "You shouldn't be here, Jack.  I'm glad to see you, but it's your death if you're found."

Jack bent forward to reply in a conspiratorial tone, "Ah, but I won't _be_ found, now will I, mate?"

A knock thudded at the door.  For an instant both men froze, looking at each other.  Jack was just a shape among the shadows where he now stood.  Nor could Will read anything in those fathomless black eyes, set in face suddenly gone blank as stone.  Sparrow simply stared back silently, watching him, waiting in perfect stillness.

So Will went to the door.  And opened it to find Commodore Norrington standing in the soft night just outside.  Several paces behind him stood four red-coated Royal Marines.

***

TBC …


	5. Chapter 5 Strands of Many Things

**PIRATES OF THE **CARIBBEAN******: THE AFRICAN STAR**

**By ErinRua**

CHAPTER 5

"Commodore!  Good evening, sir.  How may I help you?  I was just closing up."

They would not bother to knock if they were hunting pirates, Will's good sense silently shouted, though his heart threatened to jump up his throat.  He did not stand blocking the door, but neither did he entirely open it.  Instead he simply behaved like what he was, a man astonished to find the commander of the local Royal fleet standing at his shop in the dark.

"Deucedly awkward, this."  Norrington clasped his hands behind his back and raised his chin.  "Forgive me, Mister Turner, but have you seen Miss Swann today?"

"Why, no."  His mind leapt from panic to confusion and Will frowned.  "Is something amiss?"

"I'm not sure."  The young commodore unclasped his hands and dropped his right to the hilt of his sword.  The very sword Will himself had made for Norrington's promotion almost a year ago.  "I had hoped perhaps you had seen her or might know of her whereabouts.  Has she spoken to you of any plans for this evening?"

As Will watched, Norrington again shifted his hands behind his back, and a bolt of unease shot through him.  Despite the fact Will was known to be courting Elizabeth Swann, there was absolutely no reason under the sun for Commodore Norrington to come here asking after the Governor's daughter. Unless -.

Drawing himself to full height, Will said firmly, "Sir, I assure you, she is _not_ here, nor have I seen her since she and I took a walk along the harbor yesterday.  I would not compromise Miss Swann's honor!"

"No, that's not -."  Norrington sighed tightly and met Will's eyes again.  "She appears to have gone astray, Mister Turner.  She went to the market to place an order with the butcher, and she has not been seen since."  That rigid military spine suddenly seemed to lose some of its stiffness and his gaze dropped as he added, "The Governor is frantic, and to be honest, I would have much preferred to find her here admiring sword-smithing and forgetting the hour."

Worry drew Will's brow into a straight dark line.  "How long has she been gone?"

"Since late afternoon."  The commodore straightened his shoulders and abruptly shifted to a depreciating tone.  "I shall hope she stopped with a lady friend in the town, as most likely she has, and simply lost track of time.  These long summer days, you know."

"Can I do anything to help?"

Norrington glanced over his shoulder at his shadowy Marine escort, then back at Will.  "Her father has informed me of her friends whom she might be calling on.  Being young it's entirely probable she is simply delayed by a late tea and womanly gossip."

Offering a prim smile, he took a precise step back.  "I thank you for your time, Mister Turner."

"I'll look, as well. Perhaps -."

"If you do, Mister Turner -." Norrington paused and gave him a stern glance.  "Pray use discretion.  We do not wish an alarm over the governor's daughter if she is simply having a bit of punch and cake somewhere."

Forcing a smile, Will nodded.  "Of course, sir.  I will inquire after her tomorrow.  Good night."

As Norrington and his escort turned away, Will closed the door between them.  For a moment he pressed his hand against the wood, head bowed.  There was no real reason to fear for Elizabeth, he told himself, and she knew this town like the back of her hand.  Furthermore, if there was one thing he could trust about Commodore Norrington, it was that the man would meticulously turn over every stone in Port Royal to assure the safety of his governor's daughter.

"Will, you scalawag."

He had almost forgotten Sparrow was here, and turned to see the pirate again ambling his unsteady, sea-legged way about the dimly-lit shop.  Gold glinted as Jack cast a sly grin over his shoulder.

"You must 'ave quite the reputation if the commodore himself is sent to fetch Miss Swann from a lover's tryst.  My, my, my."

"For pity's sake, Jack.  She is only delayed with friends."

"Why you haven't married that girl yet is beyond me, mate.  She's not getting any younger, you know."

"I'm saving my money!  I'll not ask her hand as a pauper without a house to live in.  I'm not a pirate to ignore practical good sense!"

Blithely disregarding Will's annoyance, Sparrow continued his stroll.  "And fancy me blowin' in from the briny blue just when me old chum Commodore Norrington himself shows up at your doorstep."  Jack wheeled about to sweep off his hat in a broad parody of a bow.  "It's me that should not be forgettin' the high-toned company you keep these days."

Will could only frown and turn away, his distracted gaze falling on the broom he had yet to put away. His thoughts tumbled uncomfortably between concern for Elizabeth and anxiety over a pirate standing in his shop.  In silence he propped the broom in its corner - then abruptly spun to face Sparrow with his jaw clenched.

"Jack, if you -."

"Don't even think it, mate."  The pirate's tone and gaze were both steady as steel.  "I would risk no harm nor hurt, nor so much as a hair out of place on the head of your bonny lass."

Wishing he could heartily kick himself, Will sagged and braced his spine against a workbench.  "I'm sorry, Jack.  That was uncalled-for."

"No harm.  I'd 'ave suspected me, meself."

Mutely Will nodded, hoping the flush heating his face was not visible.  His mind noted the irrelevant fact that the coals in the forge were dying away to dull glimmers.

"Why do you want me to make you a sword, Jack?  I know you could steal, pilfer or pinch any number of fancy blades."

When the expected impudent retort failed to come, he lifted his gaze to find Jack watching him, or perhaps more rightly studying him.

His purring voice oddly quiet, Sparrow said, "Because it would mean a thing to me."

No more than that did Jack Sparrow say, and for once his flamboyant gestures and glib tongue were still.  The weight of shared memory hung heavily between them, memory of peril and battle and a brave ship sunk, whilst another found her way back to her true master.  And Will Turner facing the very man who had just been at his door, placing himself between Jack Sparrow and a hangman's noose.  Just as Jack had, in his own twisted way, risked all to free Elizabeth Swann from the cursed crew of Captain Barbossa.  Last but not least, Will's long lost father, once known as Bootstrap Bill, had been Sparrow's friend and perhaps his last true friend.

"I could work on it between orders.  After tasks and jobs I must do for Master Brown."

"Fair enough."  Sparrow reached into a coat pocket and pulled forth a small but heavy purse.  Jingling it enticingly, he said, "Name your price, mate.  It's not every day I'm in the mood for spendin' at the same time as I have loot to spend."

Will gave a brief laugh before turning to the business of taking the order for Jack's new sword.  While he asked questions and jotted quick notes, Sparrow draped a heavy but companionable elbow on his shoulder and peered at the words and sketches appearing on the page.  His ringed fingers twiddled restlessly at the edge of Will's vision as they discussed the particulars, but the younger man ignored what he knew was a friendly annoyance tactic.  The simple fact was he felt satisfaction in knowing that even though this blade went to a scoundrel of a pirate captain, said pirate would truly appreciate the craft that went to its making.

"There," he said finally, straightening so the weight of Jack's arm fell away.  "Remember, it will be several weeks before completion."

"Not a difficulty."  Jack waved off that detail.  "The tricky part was gettin' meself 'ere to make the order in the first place."

A worrisome thought occurred and Will cast him a suspicious look.  "Please tell me the whole crew of the _Black Pearl_ is not skulking about Port Royal."

Chuckling deeply, Sparrow said, "Not a chance, mate.  The _Pearl is anchored away off on the eastern coast of this lovely island.  Pretty little cove and a cozy little 'amlet were the rum flows, the ladies are welcomin' and nobody asks questions."_

"If it's anything like Tortuga, I don't want to know."

Jack wagged a chiding finger.  "Now, Will, no place on earth compares to the bibulous and bountiful beneficence that is Tortuga!"

"Thank heavens.  How may I notify you when this is finished?"  He lifted an eyebrow.  "Or shall I wait until you climb through my window some night?"

"Send word to New Town at the mouth of the Savage River, around Point Morant.  Direct it to the Inn of the Slippery Eel.  I be known there."  Sparrow pressed both hands together in a prayerful half-bow that managed to look both ridiculous and sincere at once.

Then he was meandering towards the door, he was leaving, and suddenly Will found himself swallowing a big gulp of unexpected emptiness.  Words crowded at his teeth but remained unspoken, for the courtesies he might offer to an ordinary friend, for a shared supper, a pint or two at a local tavern, or a bed overnight and talk until the small hours, could not be applied to a hunted pirate who dared not let daylight find him here.

"Jack …"

"Aye, Will?"  Sparrow pivoted tipsily and faced him.

"You … you'll look after yourself, won't you?"

A white grin curled the ends of Jack's moustache.  "It's what I do best, son.  Oh, and do give the charming Elizabeth my love, eh?"  He scowled darkly.  "And for pity's sake, give her something to do at night besides take tea and crumpets!  Ta!"

And he was gone, the door thudding gently behind him.  Will sighed and stood in the silence a moment, feeling the room seem to sag in upon itself at Jack's departure.  When Jack was present, there was certainly no mistaking the man was there.  Looking at the paper on the workbench he lightly touched the lines there, and his mind's eye already envisioned what the finished sword would be.  Just this morning he had completed a newly-made steel billet, which waited only to give a blade birth.  In some strange way that eased him, knowing that at least a fine sword would remain as a tangible link between them.

And he smiled to think how perhaps he could indeed persuade sweet Elizabeth to take a moonlight stroll amidst the hibiscus flowers.  His smile faded.  Where could she be this night, anyhow?  Moments later the lantern went out and the blacksmith shop fell silent.

***  

Morning came but never Elizabeth.  Will sat on the edge of an ornate chair in the governor's parlor with his dark head bowed, listening as Lieutenant Gillette gave his report.  The young officer's frustration was evident in the clipped speed of his speech.

"Governor, we have spoken to every friend she has, every hansom cab driver in town, every merchant or craftsman who has your custom and every vendor on every street she could conceivably walk.  She has been seen nowhere, sir."

Governor Swann's mild rounded features were pinched in distress and seemed pale beneath his grey wig.  "This is not like Elizabeth.  She can be headstrong, yes, but she would not worry me so without cause or provocation.  Is there anywhere else you can think to search?"

"Sir, we are searching along the waterfront - just in case -."  Gillette swallowed and ceased speaking as the governor's face blanched.

"Yes …" he replied faintly.  "Of course …"

Will watched as Swann turned away, touching lightly, helplessly at the breast of his waistcoat.  Not for an instant could he forget the vast gulf in station between a governor and a blacksmith, and he counted it a nervous blessing that while Swann did not embrace him, neither did he interfere with his and Elizabeth's courtship, as he could have so easily done.  But if there was one absolute truth about Weatherby Swann, it was that he loved his only daughter more than life itself.  Nor was that uneasy bond one that Will took lightly and his own frustration rose in his throat like a smothered scream.  He had spent the entire morning walking the length and breadth of Port Royal, but he had found nothing nor seen anything that the governor's men had not scrutinized first.  Elizabeth had simply and truly vanished.

"Sir," he said, rising to his feet.  "I'll go out and look again also.  Perhaps something is simply being missed."

"Yes, yes."  Swann's distracted reply drifted over his shoulder as he wandered across the room.  He stopped before the ornate hearth and rested his hands on its ledge as if the burden of his worry was pressing the strength from him.  "Forgive me my preoccupation, Mister Turner. I know you are neglecting your own duties."

"Not at all, sir."  Will's brows furrowed in empathy.  "Master Brown understands fully -."  He did not mention that his hasty explanation had not allowed the senior blacksmith time to do more than sputter. "- and nothing is more important than Miss Swann's safe return."

A sudden knock echoed hollowly from the foyer outside the parlor and all three men turned.  They heard the butler's muffled voice at the door, then a clap of approaching footsteps.  The crimson-and-white uniform of a Royal Marine appeared in the parlor doorway.

"My lord …?"

The young man held a folded paper gingerly in one hand.  Behind him stood Commodore Norrington, and his face was grim as a hangman's.

***

"The Black Hand?" sputtered Governor Swann.  "Why, I've never heard of such a thing!"

"Nor have I," said Norrington, two fingers pinning a rudely-lettered page to the top of a polished table.  The scrawled words were underscored by the clumsy drawing of a clenched black fist.

"And why would they make such ridiculous demands?" Swann snatched the offending paper from beneath Norrington's hand and read allowed.  "'We command the freedom of all our African brotheren - good lord, they can't even spell - who languish in bonds on this island or your 'dotter' will be seen no more.  You have 5 days to comply.'  Heavens, I could not order such a thing even if it were possible!"

"Of course not, my lord," Norrington replied smoothly.  "Nor have we any intentions of doing so.  They have given us time, and it is time we shall not waste.  I will send men inland into the hills immediately -."  He snapped his fingers towards Gillette, who hastily bowed and fled.  "- and whomever has her will swiftly rue the day."

"You will never find her so."

All heads turned at Will's words.  Nor did he lower his stubborn gaze.  "If she is held hostage by the maroons, your men will never find them.  They have raided plantations to free other slaves and escaped into the mountains for years, with only limited hindrance.  They will see your redcoats coming from a league away and vanish like smoke."

"Mister Turner."  Norrington's tone almost dripped chunks of ice.  "What would you have me do?"  Their stares met and held like locked swords, and Norrington spoke on.  "I will spare no effort to secure Miss Swann's rescue, and I think you underestimate me sorely.  My men were not born in red coats, and I believe you will find that I can pick men for the job who are at least as clever as a certain very willful blacksmith."

"Gentlemen.  Please."  Governor Swann's gentle, weary voice broke the tension and both men turned to face him at the fireplace.  The lines of his face seemed to sag as he spoke.  "We all work towards the same end.  Do as you see fit, Commodore.  I trust your judgement.  And you, Mister Turner … you have proved yourself resourceful in the past.  I will question nothing, young man, if it brings my daughter back safely.  Do I make myself clear … both of you?"

He lifted one eyebrow and Norrington and Will answered together.  "Yes, sir."

"Very well.  Please return to your duties.  I will await your reports, and do be sure I am informed of any least thing, even if it proves a false lead."

"Of course, sir."  The commodore bowed before stepping away and Will followed suit.

Moments later both stood on the stone steps of the governor's mansion.  Below on the driveway a carriage awaited Norrington, while Will had only his two feet.  The commodore paused to regard Will, and the young blacksmith offered a weak smile.

"I know you will do your utmost," he said.

"Of course I will."  Then as if wishing to take the edge off those words, Norrington added, "As will you.  But use care, Mister Turner.  I would not wish to find myself searching for both you and Miss Swann."

For an instant the commodore's stern face seemed to soften, and Will was reminded that this man also loved Elizabeth.  Yet he had somehow possessed the grace and strength to step aside when she had chosen Will's suit instead.  It was simply not in Will to feel anything but compassion and respect for that, and his smile found strength.

"I will, Commodore.  I should dislike being a distraction."

"You have long been a distraction, Mister Turner.  It is apparently what you excel at."  Yet humor glinted in Norrington's eyes as he turned away, and Will watched him descend the steps.

As the carriage trotted clattering out the wrought-iron gates, Will lifted his head and narrowed his eyes to the bright Caribbean sun and the glittering expanse of blue-green waters beyond.  Across the harbor loomed the long blue-green shadow of the main island of Jamaica.  If a band of militant maroons had indeed taken the governor's daughter hostage, they would want to find deep hiding as quickly as possible and with minimal chance of detection.

"If I were a runaway slave," he said softly, "bearing away a captive white woman, which way would I go?"

Turning about to view the town and its environs, he reminded himself that there would be no hiding places on the long, narrow finger of land upon which Port Royal stood.  And once again his attention was drawn to the harbor.

"The quickest way out," he murmured.

Will's feet abruptly clattered down the stone steps.  He had a waterfront to haunt.

***

TBC ….


	6. Chapter 6 Clues and Answers

**PIRATES OF THE **CARIBBEAN******: THE AFRICAN STAR**

**By ErinRua**

CHAPTER 6

"Ye're not what I'd expect of them."

The sudden lilting voice startled Elizabeth, and she peered through the gloom towards the other occupant of her windowless cell.  Though the other young woman had been already here last night when Elizabeth was unceremoniously shoved through the door, she had never spoken.  For a time Elizabeth had wondered if the ghastly, stomach-wrenching stench of this dark place had rendered the girl senseless, for not even an offal heap left in the tropical sun could smell worse than this ship.

"And how is that?"

"You're a proper lady."  A musical inflection to the voice marked the woman as Irish and in the dim light that seeped into their prison it appeared she had a very fair, pretty face with pale blue eyes beneath a rich tumble of brown curls.  "I saw yer nice dress and all when they brought you in.  Not the sort I've heard of bein' taken."

"What sort is that, then?  And who is doing the taking?"

Cloth whispered as the girl shrugged.  "I know only that they're guttersnipes, the lot of 'em."

"Do you know where we are, what ship?"

"I came blindfolded, same as you, miss."

Fear and frustration began to climb at the girl's dull responses.  "Then do you know what in heaven's name they want with us?  If it's ransom they want, my father will pay, I've no fear of that."  Spitefully Elizabeth added, "Then I'll be certain the Royal Navy will sink whatever's left of these scoundrels."

"Ransom?"  The Irish lass gave a bark of laughter.  "That's jam on yer egg.  Nobody ransoms the likes of me, or any of the others they've took.  As I said, by all accounts I've heard you're not the sort."

"The sort for what?  Why did they take us?"

The girl leaned forward, diffused light painting her soft features in weird shadow.  "To sell."

"Sell!  That's -."  Elizabeth's breath caught on a fresh stab of panic, as she twisted frantically to scan the heavy wooden walls of the small hold that encompassed them.  "That's preposterous.  My father will learn and heads will roll. What sort of fools would even try such a thing?"

"Can't you tell, miss?  This is a slave ship just off-loaded its cargo.  We're to be part of the cargo goin' out."

"Cargo!"  Elizabeth's outrage spiked and she flung herself to her feet.  "I am _not_ cargo!  I know what ship this is, and I know her master.  What is your name?  We must work together and plan a way out of this."

But the other girl simply sat against the opposite wall, a dim, rumpled heap of calico and untidy curls.  "Don't be thick, girl!  And how do ye think to do that?  They'll sell us to the Spaniards or whoever will have us, and nobody ever the wiser."

Aghast, Elizabeth said, "You talk as if you've already given up.  I will _not_ stand by and let these men go about their depraved business.  We must fight, we must think!"

However, the lilt of Ireland took on a hard edge.  "You make yer plans, miss.  You and yer grand dresses and fancy ways - Just don't expect me to get beat or killed or worse, for the likes of you."

"Then give up, if you like," Elizabeth fired back.  "But I will not go so easily.  My father will turn Port Royal inside out, and so will Commodore Norrington!"

"Ah, you've friends, do you?  Maybe those gobshites reached too high, then."

Fists clenched Elizabeth pivoted and glared at the pressing dark walls.  The foul air in this place caught in her lungs like smoke and slithered nauseatingly about in her stomach, but her optimism remained undimmed.

"Just you wait," Elizabeth said.  "We'll hear them coming aboard before you know it, and I can't wait to see the look on Sir John's despicable face."

"Pray they do, lady.  Yer hope is the only hope we got."  

****

"A hundred ships and a thousand eyes, and nobody sees a thing."

The afternoon sun slanted golden beams across the quays as Will sighed in bitter discouragement.  He had just left a tavern bearing a sign denoting it as the _Blue Pelican_, from which belched raucous laughter and the reek of beer and rum.  But as with every other waterfront establishment and street vendor's booth he had called on, neither answers nor clues were found.  The tavern door behind him bashed open as a sailor staggered out, the bow-legged walk of the sea intensified by a full cargo of liquor.  Will sidestepped as the fellow nearly plowed into him and the man blearily pulled himself to a halt.

"Oop, shorry there, mate.  Lost 'm wind, need t' try another - _hic_ - tack."

He clubbed Will on the arm in lieu of apology and staggered off towards the end of the building - where he collided with the corner, caught himself, and commenced noisily retching his guts empty.  Making a sour face Will walked away.

"There must be something," he murmured.  "Something I'm missing."

But there was not.  Perhaps his guess was dead wrong, and no militant slaves had taken Elizabeth by water.  Or else he was simply unable ask the questions that would gain him the right answers.

"Maybe nobody saw anything," he sighed.  "Or maybe nobody will talk unless you _buy_ their compliance.  Ah, fool, a shilling in the right hands might have solved everything." 

His toe struck a loose cobble and in sudden irritation he scooped it up and flung it as hard as he could.  Up and up it arced until at last it dropped to plop far out in the water.  He cocked his head and frowned.  At the end of an empty dock sat an old black man, motionless as the wood pylon beside him, his gnarled hands clasping a cane fishing pole.  There were some people, Will thought, whom Royal Marines and commodores would simply never think to talk to.

Crystal green water surged in gentle swells beneath the weathered beams of the dock, gurgling and slapping in an endless rhythm.  Will found himself inhaling the pungent aroma of the sea as he ambled out to the dock's end, and a salt breeze brushed invisible fingers through his hair.  He halted only when his toes poked out over water that deepened to clear blue.

"How is the fishing?" he asked.

Will looked down as the old colored man looked up, and he beheld a wizened mahogany face made notable by one milky, blind eye.

"Fish ain't bitin'."

"Ah."  Will looked at the line hanging limply into the water some ten feet below.  Certainly he could not see any fish down there.  "Perhaps you need to try another place."

"Nope.  Dis be de spot."

"I see."  He stood a moment more then crouched down on his heels, hands dangling between his knees.  "Are you here often?"

"I be here allll de time."  The old man cackled and gave a sudden broken-toothed grin.  "Except fo' when I'm not."

"Do you catch many fish?"

"When dey bitin'.  Den I catches all sortsa fishes.  My girl, she fry 'em up fo' ol' Jack juss right."

"Your name is Jack?"

"Yassuh.  Dat be me, Ol' Jack."

Will gave a soft snort of amusement.  "I know someone else named Jack."

Again he was treated to a grinning mouthful of teeth and pink gums.  "I bet he a rascal, too."

"Yes, that he is."

Chuckling softly, Will shifted himself to sit beside the old man, his feet dangling over the water.  He was silent a moment, letting the breeze caress his face while he attempted to marshal his thoughts into some order.

Finally he said, "You must see many things from here."

"Yassuh.  Ol' Jack see ever'ting.  Big ting, little ting.  Only ting I don' see yet is angels comin' over Jo'dan.  Dat be what I waits on.  Dat an' de fish come bite."

The old man shifted and tucked his pole under one arm, and reached painfully into his pocket.  A moment of tugging and he pulled out a small cloth sack.  His gnarled brown fingers fumbled with the drawstring and Will reached over reflexively.

"Here, let me."

The old man's grey brows lowered but he held out the sack obediently.  Quickly Will tugged the ties loose and handed it back.  Ol' Jack's face relaxed.

As he reached into the sack Ol' Jack said, "Dis be sweets my girl make.  Soft fo' Jack's ol' teef.  Hab some."

Startled, Will peered at that oddly-pink palm, which held pale slices of what appeared to be some sort of dried candied fruit.  With a mental shrug he plucked one and popped it in his mouth.  The old man watched and then cackled gleefully as Will's face lightened in pleased surprise.

"Sweet fo' de soul," Ol' Jack chuckled.  "Sweet fo' de soul."

Will nodded as he chewed the succulent treat.  But then the old man spoke before he could muster further words.

"Now you tell Ol' Jack.  What you fishin' fo?"

Swallowing, Will assumed his most innocent expression.  "Fishing?"

"Nah, you don' fool me."  A bony dark finger wiggled at him mischievously.  "Nobody come talk ol' Jack.  You be fishin', boy.  What you fishin' fo' wit' out no pole?"

That one blind eye swam in a murky cloud of unseeing, but the other pinned Will with a knowing dark stare.  For a moment he hesitated, anxiety crowding tightly in his throat, for if he said the wrong thing he might not only fail to find answers, but he could conceivably forewarn the kidnappers as well.  The old man carefully chewed one of his candied fruits.

"You want to know what Ol' Jack sees.  You has a burden, yas you do."

"Yes."

"Den you tell me.  Tell me what make yo' face cloud up like rain."

As well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.  Taking a breath, Will said, "I've lost someone.  She was taken."

"Taken how?"

"I don't know.  But she never came home.  Her father has heard no word.  I cannot find her."

The grizzled grey head wagged slowly.  "Not a good ting when de daddy don' know."

"No, it's not.  And I would find her - for her father."

"An' fo' yo' se'f, eh?"  That gleaming dark eye narrowed merrily.  "Do it be love?"

Letting his head drop, Will replied softly, "Yes.  It be love."

"Ohhh, you po' foo'."  Ol' Jack's snaggled grin beamed once more, but there was cunning behind that wizened face.  "Den you tell Ol' Jack why you tink he see some'ting, eh?"

Will's feet dangled over empty space with a deep splash waiting below, and that was just how it felt when he opted to reveal the truth of his search, as he had not to any other man.

"I think she was taken away from here.  And I think if I were the men taking her, I would not risk the road where others might see.  I would go by boat, and disappear into the dark."

He turned his head to meet the old man's one-sided stare, and prayed he had not sunk what little hope he had.  The smile was gone from that wrinkled dark face, and the deep lines of it shifted as Ol' Jack appeared to chew on his thoughts along with his sweets.  A long silence grew and stretched between them.  Finally, however, Ol' Jack spoke.

"I see t'ree mens take a lady in de boat.  Dey come hyah lass night juss when de sun go down and de lass fish is bitin'."

"Could you see what she looked like?  What she was wearing?"

"Look like a lily," the old man replied, bobbing his grey head.  "Shinin' like a lily in de gloomin'.  She pretty lady, I hear it when she talk.  Too fine fo' de likes o' dem."

Will found himself holding his breath.  "What did she say?"

Ol' Jack cackled.  "She say plenty!  Most she tell dem what she tink and she call them anyting but a white man, dat she do.  Sho', boy, she talk words I don' even _know_!"

"Elizabeth," Will whispered and smiled despite the gigantic fist suddenly wrenching his heart.  "And those who took her?  What manner of men were they?  Could you see faces, color, clothing?"

"Oh, yas.  Dey be sailor mans. An' whiter 'n you, young 'un."

He almost stopped breathing, staring at the old man's bland, wrinkled features.  "Where did they take her?  Where?"

"Oh, you don' want to follow where she go."

"I must!  Please, tell me!"

The old man's brown face seemed to sink into sorrowful folds and he looked down at his knobby hands.  "She go de debbil ship."

"Devil ship?"  Will thought he might leap right off the dock for sheer frustration.  "What devil ship?"

Ol' Jack spoke no word, but raised one crooked hand to point out across the shifting, heaving water.  For a moment Will looked in incomprehension, seeing a wide expanse of numerous small craft, fishing boats, merchant vessels … and one tall, grim square-rigger anchored just off the shipyards.

Against hope, he asked, "Did you see them come back to shore?"

"No, sah.  Dey go out.  Dey don' come back."

"Why didn't you tell someone, Jack?"

"Sho', boy, who gon' listen Ol' Jack?"

In despair Will wondered if the old man was right, that any alarm he might have tried to raise would have gone unheeded.  But he would never know.  And the _Royal Venture_ had to be nearly complete in her repairs.

"They can't be allowed to sail!"  Will scrambled to his feet.

"Nobody come back from de debbil ship, young 'un," croaked Ol' Jack.  "You go dere, you don' ebber come back."

"This time they will."

"Hey, boy!"

The shock of that bark halted Will, and he frowned down at the old man.  However, Ol' Jack held his gaze and that single dark eye blazed with startling intensity.

"De debbil on dat boat, young 'un.  He be takin' body an' soul fo' many long time, an' he don' care you be white o' black."

"He'll care now."  With a last fierce glance towards the _Royal Venture_, Will wheeled about and ran.  "Thank you, Jack!"

In his wake the old man tilted his head to look at two silver coins left on the dock beside him.  The fish were not biting but perhaps the day was not all lost.

Two minutes later Will was shouldering his way back into the steamy chaos of the _Blue Pelican_.  There the tavern keeper still bustled among his kegs, and with a hard grab Will seized him by his shirt.  With his other hand he slapped several silver coins - Jack Sparrow's coins - on the counter between them, and the tavern keeper's ruddy face flashed from outrage to interest in one blink.

"This is yours," Will said, and his dark eyes bored into the man's beady stare as he clapped his palm back over the coins.  "When you tell me what you know about the _Royal Venture_ and Sir John Biltmore."

***

TBC …


	7. Chapter 7 As Bad As It Seems

**PIRATES OF THE **CARIBBEAN******: THE AFRICAN STAR**

**By ErinRua**

CHAPTER 7

Never had the road to Fort Charles seemed so long, as Will ran towards the stone ramparts.  Though built overlooking the town the distance seemed endless and the breath burned in his lungs by the time he reached the main gate.  Past startled guards he flew, who nonetheless recognized the young blacksmith and let him pass.

In moments he stood panting in a cool, shadowed corridor, waiting as an excruciatingly correct sentry announced him to the man within.

"Let him in," drifted the reply, and even as the sentry reappeared Will was brushing past him.

"Good afternoon, Mister Turner."  Within a spacious and strictly tidy room Commodore Norrington stood sorting various documents, which were spread on a table before a tall window.  "I trust there is an explanation for this dramatic entrance?"

"Yes, sir.  I found - beg pardon, sir -."

"Do take time to breathe, Mister Turner."

Gasping, Will nodded as he leaned both hands on the far end of the table and gulped two deep breaths.  "Commodore, I spoke to - to some people.  Sir, someone saw men rowing a woman out to the _Royal Venture_ last night."

He nodded as Norrington's attention suddenly focused wholly on him.  "An attractive woman in a light-colored dress who protested against going.  And word on the docks is that the captain of the _Royal Venture_ is not very choosy about his cargo.  They say he deals in slaves both black and white.  And he has been known to traffic in female slaves."

"Indeed."  Very precisely Norrington set down his papers and turned to face Will, one hip against the table.  "Do continue."

"Yes, sir.  There are rumors - only rumors, mind you, but they bear hearing - that sometimes servants and shop girls and other women of - of the lower classes go missing, and that they are taken away to be sold in Cuba or other Spanish possessions."

Frowning thoughtfully, Norrington crossed his arms on his chest.  "And such a choice of victims would make a certain hideous sense.  Those women would have no family, or no one of prominence to excite a large-scale hunt.  But Elizabeth Swann is hardly a serving girl."

"Of course not."  Will quickly shook his head and swallowed against the queasiness now twisting in his stomach.  "But Commodore … she and I did rather attract Sir John's attention.  Unfavorably.  You heard his insinuations."

Norrington pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.  Dropping his hand, he said, "I find it incredible to imagine that a man of his stature would risk so much over a personal disagreement.  Governor Swann would ruin the man for such a thing, if not order his immediate execution."

"I agree, sir.  It makes no sense.  But Commodore, do we dare ignore the chance my informants were right?"

Norrington met Will's beseeching gaze with a brooding look.  "Your informants, if I were to venture a guess, undoubtedly are not of the most stellar reputations, and possibly not entirely sober."

"Bother sobriety!"  Ink wells and papers jumped as Will slammed his fist on the table.  "Commodore, I will beg if I must, but please take some men and search that ship before she sails!  If there is half a chance, we would be fools to miss it!"

Being nearly labeled a fool could not sit well with the commander of the local fleet.  However, Norrington's calm remained unruffled.

"Under what pretext, Mister Turner?  One does not frivolously board a ship owned by the son of a man who sits in the House of Lords.  Oh yes, Sir John Biltmore is the son of Lord James Biltmore the Third, primary share-holder of the Bristol Trading Company."

Giving his head a frustrated shake, Will blurted, "Tell him you're hunting stowaways.  Tell him someone broke out of your brig.  Tell him a savage murderous pirate is trying to escape Port Royal and you believe he is seeking sea-passage!"

For a beat Norrington simply studied him, as if he was something that had just flown in the window and landed upon his paperwork.  Then he said, "You possess a most curious wit."  Straightening, he added, "It is fortunate for your impudence that there are enough peculiar rumors attached to Sir John's name to warrant attention.   Indeed, Mister Turner.  Let us discover how terribly I can humiliate myself."

Will opened his mouth to protest, but the commodore brushed past him towards the door.  As he stepped out his voice drifted back.

"We shall pray your informant did not simply see a doxy rowing out for an assignation with the first mate."

As the commodore strode away, Will found himself abruptly very much a spare part, left behind as Norrington went forth to gather his marines.  It was, however, far better results than he had feared to get, and for once he was grateful that Norrington retained his affection and loyalty for Elizabeth Swann.  From upon the wide ramparts he could see almost the entire harbor, and he turned his attention towards the shipyards.  There, even as he watched, unfurling canvas began to blossom whitely upon the slave ship's yards.  The _Royal Venture_ was making ready to sail.

***

Darkness and dampness and a fetid cloying stink that did not entirely come from the sweating figure pressed against her; that was what Elizabeth Swann found herself enduring now.

"Not a whisper, missy," the man rasped in her ear, and she stood rigid against the heat of his breath, the ghastly intimacy of him against her and cold steel at her throat.  "Not a sound or I'll slit your pretty throat so the last thing you'll hear is your own blood drippin'."

First Mate Thomas Fry had made it his special duty to assure the compliance of their captives.  The warmth of his heavy body against her back, sticky even through layers of clothing, raised her stomach into her throat and she knew not whether to weep or rage.  Somewhere on the dirty floor the Irish girl lay in a crumpled heap, her silence assured by a smashing blow to the face.

"You're contemptible!" Elizabeth hissed, and muffled a yelp as a fist twisted in her hair.

"And you're a prisoner," he whispered back, the heat of his breath coiling damply against her cheek.  "Or to make everything crystal clear, you're about to become a slave.  SHH!"

Thumping sounds drifted through the stout walls, along with the rapid thud of feet descending ladders into the ship.  Muffled voices spoke in rapid bursts, almost certainly the snap of orders being given.  Her heart sprang in gladness as she recognized one clear voice, but the knife gouged more sharply and she sucked a quick breath.

"Not a peep," Fry breathed, and threat rasped in his whisper like an adder's scales.

Thus she could only stand frozen to the press of a knife against her jugular, feeling her pulse thud against the steel, while the tread of the Royal Navy echoed throughout the ship.  In her small dank prison Elizabeth listened in growing despair, and wished she could hurl her desperate thoughts right through the heavy walls.  'I'm here,' she cried in the silence of her heart, 'please find me.'  Yet though hard feet marched right past her hidden cell, they did not slow or stop.  Nor did the stricken Irish lass make a sound that might reveal the captives' presence.  Ever and anon the voices rang out again, but at long last they faded away.  A few moments more, then the knife point fell away from her neck.

"There, missy," her guardian purred, and she gasped as she was released.  Fry stepped away, nothing more than a hulking shadow among shadows.  "Now you're all ours."

With a moist-sounding chuckle he stepped away, relieving her at least of his odious closeness.  A rectangle of pale daylight appeared in the wall, but was closed with a jarring thud.  Elizabeth was abandoned.  Commodore Norrington's men had not found her.  She did not sob nor did she weep, but neither could she stop the frightened tears that burned in her eyes.  The Irish girl moved at last, sitting up in a dry rasp of cloth, but she cupped her fingers beneath her nose and blood ran darkly.

"Father …" Elizabeth whispered, raising her fingers to rough board walls.  "Will …"

But then she stepped back and glared at the offending walls, her small fists clenched at her sides.  Slave was it?

"You'll not hold me," she vowed, though the darkness swallowed her voice.  "You don't know me, and you certainly don't know my friends."

***

Will stood poised on the end of the old dock, watching the trim little Navy cutter skimming its way across the harbor, not knowing his tall frame leaned as if he could fly after it.  The long rays of the setting sun painted the water in gleaming gold and blue and ignited the sails of the flying boat.  The bustle of readying to get underway never ceased aboard the _Royal Venture_, but he was relieved that the ship remained stationary while the cutter's white sails glided into her shadow.  Moments later tiny specks of red swarmed up ladders and over the rail, and he silently prayed.

"You tink dey find 'er, eh?"

Will looked down at the old black man still sitting with his fishing pole.  "I don't know.  But if there's a chance … if she's there … Commodore Norrington and his men will find her."

Ol' Jack's grey fuzzy head wagged slowly.  "De debbil own dat boat, young 'un.  He don' gib up what his."

A long time the two craft stood together, the little Navy boat and the merchant vessel.  Across the water Will could, when the breeze shifted just so, distantly hear the rhythmic chanteys of sailors working on board.  The sails continued to unfurl, though not set to the wind, and tiny figures moved about the decks and in the rigging.  Twenty minutes, half an hour, more, Will could not have said how much time actually passed, as the blue shadows of the waning day grew longer.  Finally, however, small figures clambered back down to the Navy boat, and her single sail took wing.

As the cutter slid back into sunlight Will blinked and realized he was not breathing.  Had they found Elizabeth?  Suddenly he wished fiercely for a spy glass to see across the glittering waves.  The cutter's sail bellied full and white and he strained to see the occupants as it scudded back towards its berth.  The tack it took brought it close enough for him to see people, almost their faces … but with a cold thud to the heart he realized that among the masculine forms of Royal Marines there was no lithe, womanly shape, no golden brown hair shining in sunlight.  Nor had he seen them lower a sick or injured body into the boat.

"No …"

As his footsteps drummed away up the dock and deadened onto dry land, the old colored man sighed deeply.  Shaking his head he clasped his fishing pole once more.

"You fishin' shadows, boy," he mumbled.  "An' you sailin' in de dark."

***

TBC …

_Author's Note:  To all of you who email or review to offer your commentary, critique and encouragement, Thank You!  I value your honesty and your enthusiasm, and I hope you'll tell me if I sail off-course.  With my imaginary tot of rum - 'ere's lookin' at you, mates!_  :-)

_Author's Note #2:  Before anyone hollers, yes, there was indeed a small, single-masted sailing vessel called a "cutter," long before the __U.S.__ Coast Guard started making theirs out of iron with diesel engines. :-)_


	8. Chapter 8 Taking Measures

**PIRATES OF THE **CARIBBEAN******: THE AFRICAN STAR**

**By ErinRua**

CHAPTER 8

"Confound it, Turner, I LOOKED!"

Norrington's sudden shout shocked everyone to silence, and Will closed his mouth.   Taking a sharp breath, Norrington groped for his strained composure with what almost appeared a physical effort.

"I walked every inch of that ship myself. I walked every deck, searched every hold, for heaven's sake, I even looked in the bilges and the captain's cabin!  She is not there.  She is not …"

The commodore made a helpless fist and let it drop as he looked away, the setting sun painting the tight muscles of his jaw.  Beside them the cutter bobbed gently at its moorings, as sailors secured her sails and rigging.  The marines nearby kept carefully disinterested faces, standing motionless amidst their long, spilling shadows as Will and their commander faced each other.

"I'm sorry, Commodore," Will said stiffly.  "I know you used all diligence.  May I ask what Sir John's reaction was?"

"Polite," Norrington replied dryly.  "Exquisitely polite, and frigid as the North Sea.  I was reminded precisely who his family and connections were, and what an affront to the professionalism of his crew and the Royal Navy such a search was."  With a wry glance he added, "I assured him our escaped pirate was a truly desperate and cunning individual."

Will grimaced at mention of the subterfuge he had suggested.  "I'm sorry, sir.  Although I suppose we could not expect him to be more obliging."

A moment passed while the sailors worked on the boat and the marines waited on the dock.  Finally Norrington spoke once more.

"Mister Turner, it is even more ill than you know."  His expression became bleak as he looked at Will.  "From the intelligence I have been able to gather thus far, there _is no such faction as The Black Hand.  No one has heard of any group of militant maroons using that name anywhere on the island.  So if they exist, either they are newly-sprung … or it is a false misnomer for an unknown group of villains."_

For a moment Will could not speak, words fleeing his grasp as his wits grappled vainly for understanding.  Elizabeth … He turned a blind stare out towards the harbor.  Now the _Royal Venture_ was moving, white sails gleaming rose-gold in the sinking sun.  Suddenly Will was adrift and helpless, and with his only clue proven futile he had no course to set.  He knew without question that Norrington had searched just as he had said, and if he did not find Elizabeth on that ship, it was because she was not to be found.  But where was she?  Who had her?

"Why would someone just … take her?"

He turned a frankly pleading gaze to the older man, and Norrington slowly shook his head.  "She is the governor's daughter, Mister Turner.  It is an unfortunate cruel fact that unscrupulous men use innocents such as she as tools against men of power, leverage for their own gain."

"But what could they want?  Why send a ransom note in the name of a faction that does not exist?"

The shadow deepened on the commodore's brow.  "A very troubling question, Mister Turner.  Very troubling indeed.  Gillette!"

At his hail the young lieutenant straightened, and Norrington gestured the boarding party forward, back towards the fort.  As their footsteps crunched in unison onto the road, Will straggled miserably to one side.  He had hoped.  He had so desperately hoped.

"Mister Turner."

He looked up as Commodore Norrington stepped aside and let the detachment march on past.

"Though your efforts proved in vain I do not find them without merit."  Norrington met Will's doubtful expression with a level glance.  "I do not expect you to like me, Mister Turner.  But I am not a stupid man, and I will not dismiss any plausible clue which may lead to Miss Swann's safe return.  Pray continue your … unorthodox methods.  If fortune favors, between us we will soon see her home."

"Thank you, sir."

"Good evening, Mister Turner."

Ramrod straight, as ever, Commodore Norrington turned and strode away in the wake of his marines.  Behind him, Will looked to the golden sea and fiery Caribbean sky, and fought down the urge to howl in desperation.

***

Darkness wrapped warmly about Port Royal as Will Turner made his slow way home.  He had spent the last three hours working in the smithy, simply hammering out hinges and hardware for doors, hoping a bit of honest work would loosen the knot of anxiety clenched under his heart.  However, he feared there was no labor on earth hard enough to deaden the legions of his fears.  Elizabeth was out there, somewhere, and he despaired to think of her alone and afraid and praying vainly for rescue.  He dared not think who had her or to what purpose, or he would surely go mad.

Lamplight spilled across the cobbles ahead, voices tumbling from an open door in a familiar tangle of well-lubricated bonhomie.  Every night Will walked home past this tavern, and knew its patrons to be boisterous but basically decent men, some of the sea and some laborers in the town.  A shadow moved in the doorway and a voice called out.

"Hullo, Will.  Earned another sixpence today, eh?"

Glancing up, Will recognized one of the regulars and offered a wan smile.  "One hopes, Sam.  One hopes."

The man chuckled and withdrew, and fragments of other conversations rumbled forth as Will trudged past.

"She were a redhead, she were, an' ye know how they be -."

"Cost me five shillin's.  Five shillin's!  An' damme if the cursed thing was worth two."

"He were a clever lad, ol' Mac.  Had a false hold built behind his galley, hatch looked like part of the wall.  Man could put a dozen casks of rum in there, and nobody the wiser."

Three steps later Will stopped.  The tavern lay behind him now, warm shadows filling the street as stars glittered above.  A false hold.  Smugglers often had secret hiding places built aboard their vessels, so as to avoid discovery whilst trafficking things such as rum between the islands.

"Or white slaves," Will whispered.

But what were his odds of convincing Commodore Norrington to conduct a second search simply upon the hunch of a blacksmith, especially after having already suffered Biltmore's scorn and threats?  Not bloody likely.  However, there was one other option.  His face set in sudden determination, and his footsteps quickened into a run.

***

Commodore Norrington arrived at his office door punctually at 6 am, just as he did every morning.  What was not usual was the folded paper wedged in his door.  Frowning, he plucked the page free and opened it to see the scrawl of a visibly hurried hand.

_Commodore Norrington,_   
_Greetings & salutations,_

_Presumptuous though it may be, I am herewith leaving word that I have gone seeking the aid of someone who is known to both of us, though perhaps not known to both favorably.  However, he may be able to advise me in those unorthodox methods.  I have perfect faith that you will expend every effort available to you, but if other measures may prove of use I dare not leave them untried._

_Yours in haste,_   
_Respectfully,_

_Wm. Turner_

_Post Script: One might consider the possibility of a false hold in a certain ship._

Norrington reread the note in puzzlement as he opened the door and stepped into the hollow silence beyond.  He could almost hear Turner's earnest voice, carefully framing cryptic words into the assertion that he was off to do what he bloody well pleased.  Who on earth could he be so obliquely referring to, and why was the boy not here to deliver the message in person?  The commodore halted and stepped back into the corridor.

"Guard!" he called.

Brisk footsteps tapped in response to his hail, and a Marine appeared with a smart salute. "Sir?"

"This was in my door.  Did you see when or by whom it was left?"

"Oh, it was late last night, sir, that young blacksmith, Turner.  He was in a bit of a hurry, the first watch said.  So we thought it best to leave it where you would find it first thing."

"Very well.  Carry on."

Quietly Norrington closed the door behind him and scanned the hasty lines once more.  Only then did he realize a scrawl of ink in one corner was actually in the rough shape of a bird.  A small bird with wings stretched in flight, over an uneven line that could have been waves.  A crude but recognizable rendering of Jack Sparrow's trademark tattoo.

"Good lord," he breathed.  "Turner, I only pray you live long enough to learn prudence."

Norrington carefully refolded the sheet and laid it on his table.  Then he turned his face to the light of morning beyond the window, and tried very hard to think what went on in the minds of slave ship captains and pirates.  He had a sinking feeling that he was about to find himself sailing in the turbulent wake of both.

***

Jack Sparrow considered himself a man not easily surprised.  In his years at sea he had encountered everything from waterspouts and giant squid, to unholy blue fire that crackled upon his masts until the very hair on his head stood up.  Of course there was the little matter of cursed gold and undead pirates - for that matter, being undead himself - which he likewise counted among the unusual.

But somehow he had never expected to see young Will Turner some forty miles over the mountains from Port Royal, standing - or rather leaping vigorously about - amidst what was after all a secret pirate hideaway, matching blades with a formidably large pirate.  Sparrow was so astonished he stopped in the tavern doorway to stare in amazement, since that was what the other twenty-odd shouting men in the room were doing.

The duo made a marvelous spectacle to behold, certainly more entertaining than the usual boisterous fisticuffs.  For one they were both sober and for another they were both very good at what they were doing.  Steel rang against steel as Will drove to the attack, but the big man was first-rate, there was no denying that.  Will's sword wrenched in his hand as the pirate brutally parried his thrust, and he just beat an answering strike aside.

"Pretty boy, I'll 'ave you on a spit fer supper," the pirate sneered, his sword tip weaving like a cobra's head.

He struck - and Will leaped from a slashing blow onto a table.  "I think not!"

There he kicked out and shoe leather smashed skull bone with a satisfying thud.  The big pirate staggered but recovered, lunging forward as Will sprang to the floor once more.  Theirs was a dazzling dance of steel and skill, the pirate now pressing Will back along the room with a furious series of cuts and thrusts.  Yet the young blacksmith fended him off with powerful grace and gave way only in defense, his blade suddenly darting to draw blood to the pirate's dirty sleeve.

"Got you!" Will exulted, and it was his turn to press the attack.

Blades on blade wove a flashing net of lethal beauty, and the watching crowd parted in waves from each advance and retreat, shouting to their favorite with every near-miss.  And it was swiftly evident to Jack Sparrow's study that young Turner was gathering his own following.  A roar went up as the combatants' blades locked and the big pirate surged in, face contorted with hideous glee.  His hot, fetid breath blasted Will's face as he pressed the youth back and back until he thudded into a large keg.

"Got you, boy," he leered.

Will's face crumpled in disgust.  "What died in your mouth?"

Then his left hand flashed and wood whacked bone and the pirate staggered back glassy-eyed.  Again cheers went up and Will side-stepped into the open.  Now his youthful face was alight with a fierce grin, his sword in one hand and a bung-starter in the other.

"Take that!" he cried.

"Attaboy!" shouted bystanders.  "Give 'im 'oly Hobb!"

Stunned but not beaten, the pirate shook himself like a bear, a trickle of blood dribbling down his brow.  With a bellow he charged - but Will was not there, and fire slashed the big man's ribs.  Yet the pirate merely growled and lunged with astonishing speed.  His blade sung with more grace than his size would suggest, countering Will's attacks at every turn.  Nonetheless, the blacksmith's blood flowed hot in his veins and the joy of contest blazed gleefully in his dark eyes.

The sudden glimpse of a familiar hawkish face and bead-festooned black hair, however, nearly cost Will a slash to the head.

Warding the cut he called, "A little help here, Jack?"

Eyeing the contest critically, Sparrow lifted a finger.  "Your elbow's a bit high."

"Thanks -."  A stunning blow nearly shocked the sword from his hand, but he riposted and slashed a gratifying tear in the big pirate's shirt.  "But I'd rather have -."  Parry, thrust, parry.  "- This big lummox off me."

"Oh, but you're doing splendidly just as you are."  Cocking his head Sparrow asked, "Might one inquire what this is about?"

"He made rude comments -."  Metal rang as Will's sword twisted inside his opponent's blade and swept free to narrowly miss the big pirate's belly.  "About my hat!  Take that, you varlet!"

"Your hat?"  As steel clashed steel Sparrow noticed a familiar wide-brimmed, magnificently-plumed and thoroughly out of place cavalier's hat now cradled in a bystander's hands.  "Ah.  What about it?"

"It's a sissy hat," the huge pirate rumbled.

"It is not!"  Lunge, retreat.  "It's all the fashion in France."

"So what?" Parry, riposte, retreat.  "This ain't France."

"Yes, but it's what gentlemen wear -." Lunge and one of the pirate's sleeves fell dangling.  "And ladies admire them."

"They do?"  The big pirate paused with sword _en guarde_ and looked thoughtful.  Then he shrugged massive shoulders.  "I still think it's a sissy hat."

Will's lip curled in a silent snarl as he lunged inside the big man's guard, where he cracked his sword hilt across that ugly mouth.  In the next instant he was flung bodily to collide with the watching crowd - who helpfully hoisted him to his feet and propelled him forward.

"Yield!" Will cried, as he resumed a ready stance.  "Yield and I won't kill you."

The reply was an inarticulate roar, and suddenly the young blacksmith faced a veritable blizzard of hacking steel.  The length of the room they fought and slashed, and back the length again.  They were atop a long table where crockery scattered underfoot, down again with a leap over a fallen bench, and engaged a quick, clashing exchange over the top of an ale keg.  Tankards flew, the windows rattled and one man found himself holding only half an ale mug - the top half.  The resident cat fled yowling up the chimney, spectators swayed from reach like sheaves of wheat, and the innkeeper forgot to breathe so that he passed out cold, though perhaps copious sampling of his own ale had something to do with that.

Will evaded a sweeping cut and sprang outside the pirate's reach, again and again warding off the other's offense.  But soon his every move became a retreat, for the man was his equal in reach and skill and fueled by a towering rage.  Sneering to reveal a whole mouthful of broken teeth, the big pirate loomed like a giant in that smoky room.  His immense shoulders seem to swell with power as he faced a brave but weary boy with tangled hair falling in his face, who was beginning to realize he could not win.

"I'll 'ave yer liver first," the pirate jeered.  "An' then I'll use yer 'ead for a drinkin' cup."

Panting now, Will's hot glare never wavered.  "That's where you're mistaken."

Will struck aside the pirate's attack, retreating from his advance pace and parry and pace again - and Sparrow felt a sharp tug at his sash.  Then everything skidded to a halt, for in Will Turner's rock-steady left hand was Jack's pistol, cocked and aimed square at the huge man's face.

"Drop your sword," ordered Will.

The crowd held still in murmuring hush.  The big pirate's brutish face fell in dismay.

"That's not fair!"

"Really?"  One dark eyebrow tilted ironically.  "Ah, but you're a pirate - so fair doesn't actually apply to you."  Will's expression hardened.  "Now drop it."

Steel clattered on the floor, and by that sound the tongues of bystanders were loosened once more.  With a chorus of cheers they crowded around victor and vanquished alike, and despite the morning hour tankards were raised in salute - and the loser cheered along with the rest.

Amongst them Jack Sparrow stood preening in delight like an absurd and somewhat tattered peacock.  Was this not the son of his old mate Bootstrap Bill, and his own comrade in the return of the _Black Pearl_, who had just bested one of the fiercest brutes in the Caribbean?

"Taught 'im all he knows," he announced to anyone who would listen.

He turned to find himself nearly nose-to-nose with a plumed hat and a seething glare.

Sarcasm fairly dripped in Will's greeting. "Thanks, Jack."

With both hands raised in entreaty, Sparrow mustered an obsequious smile.  "Now, boy, how would it have looked if I'd interrupted meself into your fight?  It would 'ave ruined your reputation."

"My reputation?"  The youngster's expressive features registered frank disbelief.

"Absolutely!"  Jack leaned closer, his voice dropping to a confiding tone.  "Think of it, mate.  Handsome lad like yourself walks into a pirate stronghold, 'e's got to be able to fend for himself or they'll be on 'im like wolves.  What would they think if I jumped in like your nanny, eh?  Besides, it all came right now, didn't it?"

"No thanks to you."

With rather more force than was strictly necessary Will jammed the pistol back through Jack's sash and stalked away.  Sparrow made a face and gingerly adjusted the pistol before following his young companion through the cheerful throng.

***

TBC …


	9. Chapter 9 Plans and Portents

**PIRATES OF THE **CARIBBEAN******: THE AFRICAN STAR**

**By ErinRua**

CHAPTER 9

"Will, let's be fair about this.  Have I ever forsaken you in harm's way?  Have I?"

As the boy turned to give him a narrow glare, Jack draped his hand on his sword pommel and grinned in self-vindication.  "No, I haven't.  I've dangled you a bit close, perhaps, teased the odds a little, possibly even subjected you to deadly peril and the threat of great bodily injury, but I 'ave never -."  He assumed a pose, be-ringed right hand lifted as if in oath.  "- Ran out on you in a fight."

Seeing the lad's temper begin to deflate, Sparrow instantly pounced on a new topic.  "So, what brings you to the thriving metropolis of New Town?  I can't expect my new sword so soon - is it the undeniable charm of my company?"

Still grinning he turned away, certain Will would follow.  Nor was he wrong.  But he had not anticipated the boy's answer.

"Elizabeth has been kidnapped."

At those disconsolate words Sparrow did a complete about-face, beaded braids swinging.  

"Again?"  Viewing the misery on Will's face, he said, "Mate, you have got to marry that girl."

"Jack, I need your help."

"When she has the whole bloody Royal Navy - or at least the fleet attached to the Caribbean - wrapped around her finger?  You're whistlin' for the wrong wind, boy."

Shaking his shaggy head Jack resumed walking, and Will hastened to catch up, following like a desperate pup.

"Commodore Norrington is already doing what he can - but it's not enough.  Jack, I think she's been kidnapped by Sir John Biltmore, captain of the _Royal Venture."_

"You think?"  Jack spoke without slowing as he made his way towards the door.  "You need more than suspicions, boy, when dealin' with a man like that."

"You know him, then?"

"Know of him."

They paused at the door to let two drunken men lurch inside then they stepped out into the bright morning sun.  Palm trees swayed above green grasses and white sand, with the brilliant glare of beach and sea perhaps fifty yards beyond.  The rush of soft surf was welcome after the riotous clamor of the tavern.

"Then you know what sort of man he is."  Will's long legs kept him glued firmly at Jack's side, continuing his earnest plea.  "Commodore Norrington already searched his ship and found nothing, but I believe that was mischance. I believe there's a false hold in the _Royal Venture and that's where Elizabeth is being kept."_

Sparrow stopped and waited for Will to face him again.  "Son, I think we need to 'ave us a little sit-down, and you can tell me just what the name of Neptune you're talking about."

So it was they sat on a log with their legs splayed in the sand, enjoying the morning breezes beneath a palm tree overlooking the beach.  The problematical plumed hat laid aside, Will drew a whetstone along the edge of his sword as he relayed the whole unhappy tale, everything from his initial encounter with First Mate Thomas Fry to the dying slave girl to his and Elizabeth's narrow escape during the breakout.  Meanwhile Jack became engrossed in study of a coconut he picked up, turning it in his hands and then producing a knife.  With that he worried the dimples at the end of the woody fruit in a futile attempt to puncture it for the juice.  But he remained silent as the young man continued his narrative, finally concluding with his hunt for clues to Elizabeth's disappearance, the rumors of Biltmore's involvement in white slavery, and Commodore Norrington's fruitless search of the _Royal Venture._

"I overheard someone talking about false holds in smugglers' boats, and it dawned on me, certainly a man like Biltmore would be clever enough to build one, if even half of what they say about him is true."

Frowning at the stubborn coconut, Sparrow said, "And the fact your governor received a ransom note from a band of runaway slaves, directly after a band of slaves ran away, does not seem the least bit suspicious?"

"That group does not exist!" Will exploded.  "That's what I've been telling you!  No one has ever heard of them."

"Probably because they only just escaped slavery."  The tip of Sparrow's knife dug at the fibrous hull more fiercely.

"Jack, those people were fresh off the boat from Africa.  They couldn't speak English, let alone write it."

"Mm."  Sparrow pursed his mouth as he sought a new angle to breach the nut.

With an impatient grimace Will seized the coconut, laid it on the log, and whacked his sword a mighty blow.  Jack found himself accepting the return of his coconut with its top neatly cleaved off and most of the juice still in it.  Perhaps he should keep in mind just how strong this lanky lad really was.

"Biltmore thinks Elizabeth and I were part of the escape," Will insisted, applying whetstone to blade once more.  "I saw his face as we ran, and he even accused Governor Swann of involvement, raving about his financial losses.  The man looks for conspiracies, Jack.  And he practically promised that he holds grudges."

Sparrow tilted the coconut to let the sweet juice dribble into his mouth, leaning back almost to the point of upset to drain the last drop.  When finished he sat up and gave a rich burp, before fixing Will with a pointed stare.

"So your belief is that this perfidious merchant in human misery has absconded with your fair maiden for base purposes of revenge, for which you are sworn to a course of intrigue, rescue and derring-do, even at the cost of your own life and honor?"

Will stared a beat then replied.  "Yes!"

"What's in it for me?"

"What?"

Laying a finger against his chin, Jack widened his eyes expectantly and repeated, "I said, what's in it for me?  Loot, swag, plunder, pecuniary remuneration.  Money, boy."

"Jack, Elizabeth needs our help!"

Sparrow swept both arms - knife, coconut and all - wide to either side.  "And in a perfect world you and me could hop in our little boat and sail to her rescue.  But it doesn't work that way."

"Why not?"

"Because -."  Gold teeth flashed in a crooked grin.  "I'm a pirate."

Will's eyes narrowed, his disappointment keenly visible.  "And you won't do anything that doesn't offer personal gain."

"Think, mate.  A pirate captain has a pirate ship and a pirate crew, and _they won't do anything that doesn't offer personal gain, or I'll find meself on the beach again.  Savvy?"_

Turning towards the sea, Will did not really see the waves running up the sand and sliding back, or the many small boats lying tilted above the waterline.

Dully he said, "No prey, no pay."

"Now you're understandin'."  Sparrow shifted his grip on his knife and began worrying the white coconut meat out of its shell.

As he popped a sweet bite into his mouth he cast a sideways glance at Will's gloomy face.  The young blacksmith heaved an enormous sigh as he pocketed his whetstone and slid his sword though his belt.  Jack frowned, for he really did not mean to crush the lad so, but there were certain facts of life that the young and idealistic had to learn the hard way - and Will Turner certainly topped the list when it came to youthful idealism.

"Tell you what," Jack said as he chewed.  "Give me a bit of incentive and we'll think about it."

"What incentive?"  Will slumped forward and scowled over his shoulder.  "I don't have any treasure maps or magical compasses."

"No, but you do have your eye on a ship that belongs to a prominent merchantman."

Instantly the young man sprang to his feet.  "I am _not advocating piracy!"_

"Then what do you bloody call it?"  Sparrow's retort grated harshly as he matched Will's glare.  "Did you think we could just ask this bloke to heave-to while we swing gaily aboard, scoop up your lady love, and leave with a tip o' the hat?"  His tone dropped to near-gentleness as he added, "You didn't plan this all the way through, did you, son?"

Frustration fairly crackled in Will's every move, as he paced a tight path out into sunlight and back again, once even jamming his fingers into his disheveled black hair.  Of course he had not planned, he was desperate to find Elizabeth and had simply flown to the only man he knew with the resources to do what Commodore Norrington had tried - only without the constraints of law or protocol.  Fool he was - but then the real question sprang so clear it was nearly blinding: how much was Elizabeth's life worth?

"The African Star."

"Beg pardon?"  Sparrow looked up, mouth full of coconut.

"Sir John Biltmore is rich.  Filthy rich."  The younger man dropped to one knee beside Sparrow, and his brown eyes burned with fervor.  "On that ship he has over five thousand pounds from the sale of his slaves, as much as the governor makes in a year, plus they say he carries African gold and ivory.  And …" Will paused.  "He is owner of a diamond so grand the King of England tried to buy it from him."

For an instant Jack stopped chewing and his dark stare was sharp as rapiers.  Then he circled his knife hand in a 'keep going' gesture.

"I talked to people on the waterfront," Will continued.  "Men who know the ships and their captains.  They say that Biltmore trusts no one with this diamond and so he keeps it in a locked casket in the cabin of his ship.  When he goes ashore he carries it with him, for he doesn't trust his crew, not even his first mate, and when he is at home he keeps it in a locked vault."

He held Jack's gaze intently.  "It's called The African Star.  They say he betrayed and murdered the chief of an Ashanti tribe to get it, and he hired a diamond cutter to stay on his estate in Cuba for three years to cut it."

Sparrow's look was keenly calculating as he took another bite of coconut from the tip of his knife.  "Three years, ay?"

"Yes.  It's supposed to be one of the most perfect diamonds ever seen."

Cynicism appeared on Jack's tanned face as he tossed his coconut over his shoulder.  "If it's so secret, who's ever seen it to say how perfect it is?"

"He used to wear it as a badge or brooch, when he attended society affairs or wanted to impress people.  He only stopped wearing it after he was attacked one night on Barbados, and barely escaped with it and his life."

"Cuba is his home port, then?"

"Yes.  Word is that he has a villa just outside Baracoa."

"Ah," said Jack.  "Close to his market for his 'special' cargos and out of sight to English authority.  Smart man.  And you heard him say he was bound next for Hispaniola with new cargo?"

"Yes.  He said he had buyers waiting in Port Paix.  I saw his men lightering goods out to his ship.  Rumor was that it included sugar, silks and linen, silver wares, things like that."

Meticulously wiping coconut from his knife blade, Jack said, "For a man who's so adverse to piracy, you're certainly done your research into this fellow."

A faint flush rose under Will's tan.  "I wanted to know what kind of man he was - if he could really be someone who would kidnap Elizabeth for spite."

"Spite.  I think that's too small a word.  Tell me something, Will."  Sparrow leaned towards him with his elbows on his knees, hands dangling loosely, and cool appraisal shadowed those ink-dark eyes.  "If we reach an accord and if my crew is agreeable … are you truly and without a doubt certain that your lass is aboard that ship?  For once the _Black Pearl sets sail, there is no turnin' back."_

The sudden stillness in Will's young face was answer enough.

"You think on it."  Jack stood and dusted off his hands, watching as Will scooped up his hat and clambered to his feet.  Long bones seemed to untangle with less than the lad's usual coordination and he asked, "When did you last sleep?"

"Yesterday?"

"A toddy and a hammock for you, although it's a pity a lusty wench is so obviously out of the question.  How _did_ you get here?"  Sparrow peered towards the drowsy boats along the shore.

"I hired a horse and rode over the mountains."  

"Explains the hat."  As Jack set off at his swaying sea-legged gait, he cast his young comrade a narrow glance.  "You are aware those mountains are infested with every manner of cutthroat, robber and brigand, are you not?"

"What if they are?"

Their voices drifted under the trees as they walked away, Jack responding, "Boy, you'll never live long enough to make a pirate."

"I am NOT becoming a pirate."

"Of course you're not."

"I'm not."

"Did I say you were?"

"I just want to find Elizabeth."

"Of course you do."

"That does not make me a pirate."

"Of course not."

"Stop agreeing with me, Jack!"

***

The work ethic of a good blacksmith deplored the idea of sleeping while the sun was in the sky, but the exhaustion of the past almost-thirty hours hung leaden weights on Will Turner's limbs.  However, his mind yet gnawed on troubling thoughts and so he sat wakeful in the doorway of a hut that was little more than peeled poles and palm leaves, resisting the warm breeze and the whisper of the sea that called him to rest.

As much as he wanted to strangle Jack Sparrow for being so bloody difficult, he realized the eccentric scoundrel was actually doing him a favor by not leaping at the idea.  For what Will proposed was nothing less than setting a crew of ferocious pirates upon an honest British merchant ship, as a man might set hounds upon a hare.  There was no room to be mistaken, for if he was … Will Turner would be branded a known pirate, possibly with innocent blood on his hands, and he would lose Elizabeth forever.

But what other choice had he?  If he were wrong, Commodore Norrington's search would continue until Elizabeth was found, of that he had no doubt, and Elizabeth herself would be delivered safe into her father's arms.  That was the most important point of all, that her life be saved, not his.  Will simply could not stand by with empty hands, while the girl who had haunted his dreams since he awoke on a fog-damp deck almost a decade ago, was carried off into unknown peril.

He stood up as he heaved a tight breath of frustration, and stared blindly across the sandy lane, watching sunlight and shadow shift among a nearby tangle of mangrove trees.  The hut Jack had directed him to stood at the far end of the little village and there was nothing to see but a few chickens pecking among fallen fronds, a goat nibbling at a sprig of green … and an old colored man walking.  Odd, for Will had not seen him approach, but there he was.  Gnarled as the crude wooden crutch he leaned on and dressed in rags, he hobbled at a hitching gait that nonetheless suggested tireless strength.  His feet were bare and scabbed with sores of hard travel, and yet the eyes he turned to meet Will's scrutiny were bright and keen.

"Hello," Will said, then wondered why he felt compelled to speak at all.

The old man stopped, and merry lines fissured the brown skin of his face.  "Ah, dere you be."  Before Will could fathom that response, crooked fingers fumbled in a dirty tote sack slung about his shoulder.  "Mebbe you help, eh?  Dis go out."

From the sack the old man drew a small pipe, which he gestured towards Will with a hopeful and mostly toothless grin.

"Oh!  Certainly."

Inside the hut simmered the dying coals of what must have been Jack's breakfast fire, but Will was able to catch flame to a twig.  Cupping it carefully he stepped back outside, to find the old man waiting at the door.  Wiry grey curls bent over the tiny flame, and white smoke puffed to life.  The old fellow inhaled so that his weathered cheeks sucked into two great dimples, and then he smiled and breathed a long curl of fragrant tobacco smoke.

"Ahh," he sighed.  Then he cocked his head with a bright, bird-like stare.  "You tink much, young 'un."

"Tink?  Oh, think.  Why, yes, I suppose I do.  I mean, I am."

Struggling to grasp why the two of them were talking, Will watched the colored man nod slowly, again inhaling sweet smoke and breathing it out his nostrils.  The old man's fingernails were pink as he held the pipe's slender stem, pink as the polished insides of sea shells against his wrinkled black skin.

"De wise man and de fool be brothers.  Only it be de wise man dat use what's here."  Pink fingernails tapped the side of the old man's temples, his shrewd black eyes fixed on Will's face.  "You lookin' at two roads, eh?  Two roads an' which way to go?"

"Yes."  The young blacksmith glanced past his strange guest but saw no one, only the goat and chickens who paid no heed.

"Den you listen."  The pipe jabbed at him in an aromatic wisp of smoke.  "You comin' to de crossroads now, one way life, one way deat'.  You ax yo' se'f which de right way, if you hope to reach de right end."

Then the old man leaned towards him, the kinky grey fuzz of his head just on a level with Will's chin, but his black eyes were suddenly fierce as daggers.  "You a man wid two shadows, son.  Love an' war.  Erzulie, she flirt wid de boy an' make de dance, but you listen her an' she bring all yo' hopes.  But Ogun, he take what be his."

"Who are you?"

The hairs on Will's neck prickled, queer names and riddles befuddling his ears.  He flinched when knotty fingers tapped the sword at his side.

"Ogun live in fire an' metal.  He know you.  But you listen Erzulie when Ogun want what his.  Two shadows, two roads."

Black eyes, black so dark Will could not see the pupils in them and he no longer heard the whispered voice of the sea.  Mutely he watched those weathered brown cheeks pucker in as the old man drew deeply on his pipe.

"You already know de road to go."

Smoke burst straight into Will's face, a pungent gust that stung his eyes and seared his lungs.  He coughed explosively while his wits spun a dizzying turn, and he groped for the doorframe.  Gasping he tried to expel the heady fumes and find breath to demand -.

"What - what are you -?"  He coughed again and sucked a deep breath as the ground resettled under his feet.

And the old man was gone.  The goat nibbled, the chickens scratched and pecked, and Will Turner stood utterly alone.  Baffled, he peered all about and saw no sign of where the old fellow had gone, or if indeed he had really been there … but in the air lingered the sugary aroma of pipe tobacco.

"_One way life, one way deat' … You already know de road to go …"_

The old man's words tumbled in his mind as Will stepped back inside and stretched himself out on Jack's bunk.  Beneath his head the pirate's abandoned coat was heaped as a pillow, carrying its own musk of wool and sweat and mysterious places.  One way life, one way death.  Will could cast aside foolish notions and go home, letting others carry on the dangerous task of Elizabeth's rescue … but that was no road at all.  Regardless of whether the way he chose was life or death to him, Elizabeth was all that mattered.

Conviction began to gather in a cool pool in his belly, whiffing away the clouds of doubt.  Elizabeth almost certainly rested her whole faith in knowing that she was not abandoned, that rescue would come, if not by Will's hands then by the strength and tenacity of the Royal Navy.  Nor did closer scrutiny of his hunches convince him that his suspicion of Sir John Biltmore was ill-founded.  The plain fact was, wealthy scion of a noble family or not, there was a darker underbelly to Biltmore's reputation that even Commodore Norrington was aware of - dark enough to warrant his ship being boarded and searched by the commodore himself on no more than hearsay.

Staring narrow-eyed at the palm leaf roof, Will clenched his jaw.  The very worst that could happen was that the _Black Pearl_ would sink an abominable ship and her ill-bred crew, and Biltmore would be unable to leave shackles to freeze with rust about the legs of any more poor souls.  If that rendered Will an outlaw, so be it.  The chance that Elizabeth was indeed being held captive aboard the _Royal Venture_ was too great and too horrific to be overlooked for lack of fortitude or cunning.  And if anyone in the Caribbean possessed a surfeit of cunning, that man was Captain Jack Sparrow.

Finally Will took a long, cleansing breath and closed his eyes to sleep. 

***

TBC …

**A/N:** _ Rather than single out names, I'll just take this time to offer a group THANK YOU!!!! to everyone for such wonderful encouragement, and thank you especially to all who have caught my little type-os, missing words and other bloopers.  Your keen eyes and grammatical acumen are much invaluable!  :-)_


	10. Chapter 10 Night and Waiting

**PIRATES OF THE **CARIBBEAN******: THE AFRICAN STAR**

**By ErinRua**

CHAPTER 10

Will Turner could only hope that the lure of a fat prize ship would be enough to pry Jack's pirate crew out of their holiday of debauched leisure.  The booty won in their forays was more easily spent than gained, and his prayer was that the promise of a richer prize would fire them to action.  Granted, the reactions of Jack's first mate and bo'sun later that day were a little less than inspiring.

"Tell me again why we want this ship, _Royal Venture?" Gibbs asked.  He squinted against the afternoon sun as he scratched his grey mutton-chop whiskers._

"Because she's rich!"  Jack's expansive swing of hands matched the brilliance of his grin.  "Fabulously rich in coin and cargo, a veritable prince's ransom beggin' to be taken, just as Will told you.  And …" His smile weakened as he added with a shrug.  "Because his lovely Elizabeth is kidnapped and on board."

Both First Mate Gibbs and Bo'sun Anamaria turned twin looks of surprise.  Their baritone and soprano chorused as one; "Again?"

"Long story," Will sighed.

Anamaria took a swift step to stare into his face, a sharp finger fiercely pointed.  "This better be good!"

"Oh, it is!"  He glanced to Jack, who quickly nodded his own affirmation.

Pretty brown eyes narrowed.  "You two are nothin' but mischief togethah!"

Instantly Jack looked wounded but Will merely donned his best smile.  "Anamaria … trust me.  Please.  Elizabeth is in grave danger and I need your help, but I'm not coming to you empty-handed.  I'll explain when Jack gets the crew together."

The _mulatta_ woman paused and some of the fire eased from her eyes as she studied him.  "There's no lyin' in you, Will Turner," she said finally.  "I'll trust you."

With that she strode away, Gibbs turning with a grin to more slowly follow.  As they watched the two leave, Jack's shoulders slumped.

"How come she never says that to me?"

***

The pretty Irish girl was Róisín, an unmarried seamstress whose quick pride fiercely refused to allow a British tongue to twist "ro-sheen" into "Rose," and that set the uneasy tone for the two women's captivity.

"Know this, yer ladyship," Róisín hissed.  "I'll not die for you.  So you best mind yourself while we're here."

"But we can't give up!" Elizabeth protested.  "Róisín, we must watch for our chance!"

"Chance?  I'll tell you what chances they give.  When they took me, they slit my friend's throat and left her lyin' in the laundry.  Do you know why?"  In the dimness Róisín's mouth twisted.  "Because she was not pretty enough."

Elizabeth gasped and pressed her knuckles to her mouth lest she cry out - or perhaps become ill.  Yet she read only truth in the unshed tears that glittered in the Irish girl's eyes.

Their sea-borne prison was no larger than a store room and utterly without windows, the only light sifting through chinks in the rough board bulkheads.  Air drifted in but it was anything but fresh, tainted as it was with the fetid stink that seemed sunk into the ship's very bones.  More than once Elizabeth wondered if her total immersion in such stench would kill her ability to smell anything else.  That there was a passageway outside they knew, but their door had no latch on the inside.  She further suspected the door was concealed by an outer panel, since Norrington's men had utterly missed it and she heard a scraping sound each time the door was opened.  Their dungeon was, to all practical purposes, invisible.

Twenty four hours after Elizabeth's abduction the heave of the sea settled once again to the sleepy roll of being in harbor.  They waited as somewhere above the clangor of the anchor and voices and footsteps resounded.  It was hard to say which fear was greater; that someone would come, or no one would come at all.  But they remained undisturbed and the ship rocked and creaked.  The only human they saw was a silent black man who came twice a day, bringing their meals and taking out their bucket of night soil.

"Please," Elizabeth begged.  "Can you tell me where we are?  Where are we going?  Can you tell us _anything?"_

But the black man moved as if he was not aware of their existence, and left as noiselessly as he came.  All they could do was endure the gloom and stench in brittle misery.  Time turned back on itself in that rank, twilight world, until at last heavy feet thudded and beyond their prison a shrill voice screeched a despairing cry.

Wood grated heavily then the door burst in, and one after the other two forms tumbled inside, sprawling in tangles of petticoats and white-eyed fear.  The same square-jawed man as before grinned in the doorway, and a lantern illuminated the leering faces of four other men in the narrow passage just beyond.

"There you are, ladies.  We brought you a couple playmates."

One of the other men grinned with broken teeth.  "Cor, Mister Fry, it's a pity we can't play wif' 'em now!"

"You don't have the price," Mister Fry replied sternly.  "You know the rules.  And the ladies will learn 'em."

He gave a cackling laugh that seemed to stick wetly in his throat.  Then he slammed the door, sealing them into the stinking gloom once more.

The mulatto girl, Bess, spoke her name but no other word, her handsome features as expressionless as polished mahogany, her thoughts far away.  She reminded Elizabeth unhappily of the slave girl she had been unable to save.  The second new lass, however …. Ah, Sarah's chubby, pretty face was fixed in a pall of terror that at times made her seem almost blind.

As darkness fell she sat rocking back and forth with her hands clutching her skirts.  From time to time she roused to babble in a high, thin voice.

"They'll come in here - they'll come in that door - I know what they do to young ladies - They'll be back - I never should have taken that walk - they'll come in here -."

"Jaysuz wept!" Róisín cried at last.  "Will ye shut yer blessed gob!"

"Hush, Róisín," said Elizabeth, her eyes on the dim shape of Sarah's pasty features.  "She's afraid, as we all are.  Here, Sarah, you must eat."

Sarah took the horn spoon and the now-cold bowl of boiled yams and rice that Elizabeth pressed into her hands, but she made no move to eat.  Perhaps the foul miasma of this place turned her stomach even more than her fear.  Elizabeth sighed and sat back on her heels, brushing idly at the undoubtedly filthy tangle of her skirts.

"We must think of a plan.  We don't know where we are or how soon we sail again, but we're only a day away from Port Royal.  We haven't much time.  Being in harbor is our only chance."

"Chance for what?"  Róisín's suspicion was audible in the gloom.  "To throw ourselves right into those blackguards' arms on our way out?  Or do ye fancy drownin' while they hang on the rail and laugh?"

"I have no intentions of doing either."  Coolly Elizabeth met the other's gaze.  There was anger there, but it was based in the same clawing fear they all shared.  "But if we are clever and careful, we can escape.  We must!"

"How?"

From her corner Bess watched them both.  She remained blank-faced as a statue but sudden tension seemed to coil in her still form.

"We can overpower the colored man who brings our meals.  It's an ugly thought, but I fear it's needed.  If we all strike at once - and if we use … that …" Elizabeth grimaced and gestured towards their necessary bucket.  "I'm certain we can stun him long enough to get out."

"Ah-hah."  Róisín cocked her head in clear mistrust.  "And don't ye think those goms on deck would notice us?  We do stand out aboard ship just a little."

"Not if we use our heads.  We don't have to burst out willy-nilly."  She smiled grimly, remembering a phrase Will had quoted from a clever friend.  "We must wait for the opportune moment."

***

As the sun sank in flames behind the spine of the Blue Mountains a bonfire blazed on the beach, reflecting itself in fragments in the deep glossy flow of the restless surf.  Around the fire rough faces shone in merriment as laughter and voices rang out and the dark gleam of a rum jug was passed hand to hand.  Nearby slower coals simmered in a pit dug in the sand, from which succulent smells of cooking drifted.  "Jerk" pork sizzled in its coating of peppery high seasonings, while in iron pots bubbled red bean stew, and rice and peas in coconut juice.  At the edge of the coals gently steamed a pan tumbled full of little cassava cakes, along with a heap of fried plantain fruit and another of "blue draw," a local treat made of green bananas, coconut and sweet potato grated together with flour, seasonings and coconut milk and boiled in banana leaves.

In the growing shadows several yards back from the festivities, however, Will sat alone.  "Again?" had been the startled reaction of more than one of Jack's old crewmembers, upon hearing of Elizabeth's kidnapping by a dastardly foe.  "Again?"  Granted, Cotton the mute's parrot had responded with, "Shiver me timbers!" which everyone figured amounted to the same thing.  Again … but it had almost been easier when they simply faced a crew of accursed, undead pirates and their black-hearted undead pirate captain, instead of a respected merchant captain with ties to the House of Lords, a rich family and the protection of British law.

Will counted over thirty men present, a proper pirate crew for the _Black Pearl_.  Among the revelers were men from Jack's earlier crew whom he knew and who would have welcomed him; grizzled first mate Joshamee Gibbs, Cotton the weathered old mute, burly shave-headed Tearlach, maybe even Anamaria, whose bright eyes and white teeth flashed laughter at something Gibbs had said.  Yet he found he simply did not have the heart for jolliness.  He glanced up as someone blocked the firelight to see one of the local women.

"You too skinny, boy.  Eat somet'ing."

He murmured his thanks as a still-warm blue draw was pressed into his hand and the woman walked away, bare feet silent in the pale sand.  Even as he peeled the moist leaf covering away, he sighed with deep unhappiness.  The night could not have been lovelier.  The sea beyond their cove heaved in deepening hues of indigo and gold beneath distant towers of fiery clouds, while gentle waves spilled themselves in white frothing collars that rushed whispering up the shore and slid back again.  Overhead the sea breeze sighed in the palm trees and while darkness fell swiftly the sand was warm beneath him.  A fiddle began to scrape a tune, and although everyone kept talking, someone among the men began to sing.  In a clear, true baritone he swung into an easy three-four time.

_My boat's by the tower, and my bark's on the bay,_   
_and both must be gone at the dawn of the day.   
The moon's in her shroud, and to light thee afar   
On the deck of the daring's a love-lighted star._

Elizabeth should have been here.  She would have loved this.  Though the very model of what a proper young British lady should be when in the public eye, Will knew the heart of her.  His lady was not made to be a creature of corsets and crinolines, of cool British poise and calling cards and tea served precisely at two, oh no.  His Elizabeth could hike up her skirts and touch off a cannon while chain shot howled through the rigging.  His Elizabeth could shoulder a musket and face a ravening foe, and stand boldly on the deck of a pirate ship to stare Death and shipwreck straight in the eye.

_So wake, lady wake, I am waiting for thee,_   
_Oh, this night or never my bride thou shalt be,   
So wake, lady wake, I am waiting for thee,   
Oh, this night or never my bride thou shalt be._

But she was not here.  He could not smell the fragrance of lavender as she sat at his side, watching the moon rise to paint its path over the never-sleeping sea, and she could not hear a rough-handed pirate with a voice of gold sing of love in the only way he knew how.

_So forgive me my rough mood unaccustomed to sue;   
I woo not, perhaps, as your landlubbers do.   
My voice is attuned to the sound of the gun   
That startles the deep when the combat's begun._

Tall boots scuffed sand beside him and a long-fingered hand dangled a bottle before his eyes.  He blinked at it, saw firelight shifting on the amber liquid within.

"This is supposed to be _fun, mate," drawled a familiar voice.  "Last night ashore, ay?  Eat, drink and be merry."_

Will attempted a smile as he looked up to see Jack Sparrow sitting down.  Lanky bones simply unhinged and dropped the pirate beside him with a thud.

"Sorry, Jack."

"Thinkin' about your bonny lass, are you?"

_So wake, lady wake, I am waiting for thee,   
Oh, this night or never my bride thou shalt be.   
So wake, lady wake, I am waiting for thee,   
Oh, this night or never my bride thou shalt be._

"Yes."  Will shook his head to the bottle that Jack bumped invitingly against his knee.  No matter how much of Jamaica he had absorbed over the years, he had never acquired a taste for the national drink.  Besides, Elizabeth frowned on it.  "I wish she was here."

He felt Jack's gaze on him and was glad the deepening twilight hid the heat flooding his face.  Bloody foolish thing to say and he busied himself with a bite of plantain fruit.

Thankfully Sparrow made no comment, instead sitting with the bottle swinging loosely between his knees and his narrow dark face limned in firelight.  There was comfort to be had in companionship that demanded nothing and Will felt grateful for it.  Shadowy figures moved about the cook fire as now other voices sang in cheerful disharmony.

_The Frenchman and Don will flee from our path,   
And the Englishmen cower below at our wrath,   
And our sails shall be gilt in the gold of the day,   
And the sea robins sing as we roll on our way._

"Good men, this lot," said Sparrow.  "We picked up some new crew since you were with us.  Our nightingale there, that's Irish John.  Big fella behind him, that's Original John.  Best topman I know, not afraid to run the riggin' in the face of a hurricane."

Will squinted into the shadows and was somewhat alarmed to see none other than the brute of a pirate he had crossed swords with upon arrival in New Town.  "He probably doesn't have the sense to stay out of hurricanes."

"He was bo'sun's mate on a navy ship.  One night in port, 'e saw a man beatin' a whore on the street.  So John hit 'im just once - but broke 'is neck."  Sparrow slanted him a look.  "Man he killed was an admiral's nephew.  He was for the gibbet until he found 'is way out here."

Now the mob at the fire joyously bellowed their tune.__

_A hundred shall serve - the best of the brave,   
And the chief of a thousand shall kneel as thy slave,   
And thou shalt reign queen, and thy empire shall last   
Till the black flag by inches, is torn from the mast._

Beyond the fire Cotton's wizened face split in a silent grin, as Anamaria reached past Gibbs to belt another pirate with a stick. Laughter rang above the fiddle's merry voice.

With a faint smile, Will said, "I didn't think to see her still with the crew."

Sparrow shrugged.  "She comes and goes as pleases her."

Aye, she would, for the pretty but fierce _mulatta pirate was no more to be bound than the tempests that rode the clouds across the sea.  At another thought Will glanced at Jack._

"How much did you tell them?"

"No more than what you heard," was the reply.  "They know we seek a rich prize, and you seek a lady fair."

That meant Jack may or may not have revealed the full tale of the African Star, since possession of such a gem might hold even greater allure than the wealth to be had from a rich prize.  However, that was of no matter to Will.  Now the fiddle gamboled along carrying the tune in solo, and from the sides of his eyes Will studied the hawkish profile beside him.  He did not think he would ever truly understand the devious mind behind that face, and was not at all sure he wanted to.  But he hoped it was enough that he was laying his trust - and Elizabeth's hope - in Jack Sparrow's hands.

"We'll find her, boy."  Sparrow turned his head with the rum jug poised in hand.  "Worry you not.  Tomorrow the _Black Pearl goes hunting."_

His teeth gleamed in a fox's hard, bright grin, before he tipped the bottle to his lips.  Now the fiddle wept to a slower tempo as Irish John sang alone, and his sweet Gaelic baritone repeated the chorus with a wistfulness that hushed every voice around him.

_So wake, lady wake, I am waiting for thee,   
Oh, this night or never my bride thou shalt be.   
So wake, lady wake, I am waiting for thee,   
Oh, this night or never my bride thou shalt be_.*__

Somewhere out on the darkening sea where billows of clouds burned away to ghosts, the _Royal Venture_ sailed.  Elizabeth waited … and Will would find her.  By all that was holy in heaven and earth, he would find her, though it cost him life and honor.

"Jack, I want your word on something."

Caught in mid-swig, Sparrow swallowed and wordlessly tilted his head in question.

"No matter what happens to me … I want you to promise to see Elizabeth safely home."

Instantly a scowl darkened Sparrow's face.  "You have plans I don't know about?"

"No, but … I want to know she'll be safe."

For a beat they studied each other, the blacksmith and the pirate.  There between the bonfire and the night he was indeed Mad Jack Sparrow.  Firelight hewed his dark face sharply in angles and shadow, flame flickered in his black eyes and glinted mockingly on his rum bottle, and it winked on the little baubles tied in his thick hair and the twin strands of his goatee.  But Will waited on the man behind the illusion. Then Jack shifted the bottle from one hand to the other and held out his free hand.

Lifting his chin he said, "Done."

Will returned the clasp strongly and nodded once.

"Well, now that we've eased your conscience, soothed your worries and settled all matters secular and spiritual -."  Jack grinned.  "What say we eat?"

***

TBC …

**_A/N:_**_ Once again my thanks for everyone's encouragement and also for all your helpful little words of correction, information and advice. I remain sincerely grateful for all of you, and count this personal reader-author interaction as the true blessing of fan fiction writing.As an added note, someone asked if I'm going to introduce any OC's. If by that you meant any original female characters, the only OFC's in this story will be involved with __Elizabeth__'s situation, and no romance other than Elizabeth and Will. To be perfectly honest, I am pretty much just an action/adventure/fantasy writer and I find little or no urge to write romance. As for original male characters, however - you betcha. You're going to meet some of Jack's crew and you'll see more of the established Bad Guys as well. I hope those answers do not disappoint anyone and that you'll continue to enjoy my tale. Thanks for coming along for the ride! :-)_

* "_The Pirate Song_": _Traditional sea-faring song, origins unknown. __Midi__ file: http:/ / www . contemplator . com / folk4 / pirate . html (Just remove spaces. FF.net eats links, apparently.)_


	11. Chapter 11 Desperate Chances

_A/N: This is an Elizabeth chapter, just so you know, and things get a bit dark, also so you know.  This story is shaping up to be an epic, and the ride will take us over some rough spots. I hope, however, to make it worth the trip._

**PIRATES OF THE **CARIBBEAN******: THE AFRICAN STAR**

**By ErinRua**

CHAPTER 11

Night drew a warm veil of stars across the Caribbean, but it brought only deeper darkness to those clasped in the dank bowels of the _Royal Venture_.  They listened to the myriad creaks and sounds of the ship at anchor and listened as well for the footstep of chance outside their cell.  And it came as they knew it would, the dull grating sound of a panel being drawn aside and the door swung in to a whiff of cooler air and the light of a single lantern beyond.  A bent silhouette was the black man who brought their supper - which would of course be long cold, for prisoners were fed last and with little care.

Yet their breaths caught fast in their throats for the lantern was held by an unexpected other, a grim-faced crewman with a cold glint of steel at his waist and the stamp of a brute on his heavy features.  Now or never - now or cast all hope aside - Bess sprang with a puma's silent fury, her dark hand fisting and striking even as Róisín flung herself after and Elizabeth found herself with the bail of their noisome bucket in hand and swung it as hard as she'd ever struck in her life.  Didn't want to think of what exploded against bulkhead and floor with a reeking splash nor where she found the fury to wheel with her full weight and strike again, the lantern shattering into sudden darkness.  No sound but jagged gusts of breathing and a body was on the floor, the black man curling huddled with his hands flung over his head.  Over him leapt Bess even as Elizabeth struck the third and final time and the white crewman slumped to stillness.

"Go!" came a sharp Irish hiss and they burst from their cell like scattering birds.

But not upwards, no, not up to open decks where quick eyes would spy and the alarm would almost instantly sound.  Down they fled, feet skidding on damp planks and steep ladders towards shadowy decks below.

"Here!" Elizabeth seized a sleeve in darkness, for what she had hoped for was found.

A small hatchway appeared down on the orlop deck, opening to little more than a long wooden tunnel, but in it lay their only hope.  Metal clinked as they slipped inside, Róisín bearing the fallen sailor's sword, then Bess drew the hatch behind them and shut them into utter darkness.  Yet Elizabeth knew where they were; the carpenter's walk it was called, a narrow passageway designed by shipbuilders to allow a carpenter unobstructed access to all a ship's underpinnings, should she suffer damage below the waterline in battle or storm.  Without light of any sort they progressed as blind women, but there was only one way to go; forward.

Beyond timbers of heavy oak and pine the silence seemed enormous, for they knew it could not last.  As they crept along Sarah whimpered but was instantly silent, perhaps due to a hand clamped on her mouth.  Then Elizabeth bumped heavy softness, realized Róisín had stopped, and she sank to her heels, feeling Sarah and Bess behind her doing the same.

"What now?" hissed Sarah's whisper.

"We wait," Elizabeth whispered in reply.

So they did.  Naught did they hear but the thud of their own pulses and the soft gust of their own breathing.  In that dark corridor the clammy air seemed to thicken, the stench of the ship nearly a physical pall, and drumming hearts and heaving lungs soon warred for space within ribs that grew oddly too tight.  Every so often the ship groaned annoyance like a disgruntled old woman as it shifted and settled around them.  Yet there was nothing else.  Elizabeth found swallowing nigh impossible with a cotton-dry throat, and she wondered if they had somehow killed the black man and the sailor.  Minutes seemed like hours before at last they heard what they knew they must, the shout of alarm beyond their wooden walls.  Now they could only sit in breathless stillness, hearing the drumbeat of feet thudding as fast as the racing of their hearts, until the voice of rage clapped like thunder on the decks above.

"That's him," Elizabeth whispered through clenched teeth.  In fear and abhorrence she peered upwards in pitch blackness, as if to pierce the layers of wood and darkness between.

Róisín whispered, "That's who?"

"Sir John.  That vile, loathsome -."

"Who the devil is Sir John?"

"The master of the _Royal Venture.  That's what ship we're on.  That's who has us."_

"Lovely.  Be sure to invite him to tea, then."

They fell into tense silence once more.  Footsteps and voices resounded hollowly, a heavy tread beating the boards just over their heads and then returning.  Then the voices receded, and a muffled clatter of blocks and rigging said that boats were being lowered to the water.  Once again that greater voice rang out, the words indistinct but the fury in it as sharp as a jagged blade.  Sarah pressed into Elizabeth's back, her breath coming fast as they tried to imagine what happened beyond their concealment, the harried rush of men driven to search a ship from which escape should have been impossible.

And marvelously, an electric sort of peace slowly settled upon the _Royal Venture_.  Now heavy feet clumped to and fro as men settled into a methodical search of the holds and bilges, and random voices rang out in query and reply.

"There!" whispered Elizabeth.  "Most of the men are searching below decks.  Now's our chance!"

Sarah's fear spun forth like thin wire: "What if - what if -."

"Shut yer gob, lest ye kill us all!"  Thus spat Róisín's reply, as the Irish girl moved ahead.

On and forward they went, bodies bent against the danger of cracking their skulls on unseen beams, skirts whispering against rough wood bulkheads.  Never had one-hundred feet seemed so long nor was it gained with such trepidation.  Cruel men searched this ship, searched every inch of her by the clumping, thudding sound of it, and it was sheer blessing that none had bethought themselves of the carpenter's walk yet.

Finally the faintest suggestion of light appeared ahead and a steep ladder.  Up they crept to the deck above, and found only empty, stinking stillness.  One more ladder stood before them, and steel glinted as Elizabeth climbed towards the hatch above.  Slowly, ever so slowly she pushed it open.

Silence.

"Come," she hissed, and swept as a bundle of skirts and petticoats upwards and gone.

Elizabeth burst into starlight and the rich perfume of sea and shore, gasping as if she had never breathed clean air before.  Yet there was no time to linger as she picked up her skirts and scooted into dubious shelter beside the capstan.  Róisín, Sarah and Bess swiftly followed to huddle next to them.  For a long minute none of them moved, the ship gently lifting and falling beneath them.  A lantern moved across the afterdeck then was still, other lanterns blazing amidships and aft, and in their wavering glare several sailors moved in steady caution.  However, for the moment none seemed inclined to come forward, and there was no sign of the ship's captain.

"We're here," Róisín whispered.  "Now what, yer ladyship?"

The Irish lass waited in her place and Elizabeth eased forward.  What now, indeed?  For though the sea was warm there was no knowing if any of her companions could swim, or if any of them could indeed survive the weight of sodden skirts and clothes long enough to reach the shore - if such a plunge was not instantly heard by all on board.

A hollow bump and sudden voices jolted her heart into her mouth and she flung herself into shadow against the rail.  A frantic glance back at the others proved they had also heard, and did their best to shrink into invisibility.

"Bloody goose chase, is what," grumbled a voice - a voice over the side!

"Aye," growled another.  "They 'ave to be still aboard."

Elizabeth held her breath as more thumps and thuds resounded until hands appeared at the rail, and a seaman heaved himself up the last of a rope boarding net and over the side.  His mate followed a moment later.

"Let's ask Mister Fry what he wants us to do next," he said.  "The others won't find nowt rowin' around out there."

"Aye," replied the other, and both men tramped away.

Relief so sharp it dizzied her swept Elizabeth and she feared they would hear the pounding of her heart.  Yet their bulky forms lurched off amongst rigging and hatch coamings, and she sternly called herself in hand.  With a final glance aft she seized the rail and peered over the side - and could have cheered for joy.  There on the water below bobbed one of the ship's smaller boats, its oars neatly shipped aboard.

She turned but her sharp gesture was unneeded, for Róisín already read her intent and led the others in a swift, silent rush.  Elizabeth went first over the side, silently cursing skirts and petticoats as she clambered down, and nearly pitched overboard as her feet struck the unsteady little boat.  With a gasp she caught at the net and regained her balance.  Sinking to a crouch she steadied the net in firm hands and looked up to give a nod.

Down they came, first Sarah - who dropped the last three feet to land half atop Elizabeth with a resounding hollow thud that seemed to echo across the entire harbor.  Yet no one on deck heard.  Bess flowed down the side next, neatly gathering her dress to crouch at the boat's bow.  And last came Róisín, climbing precariously with her sword in hand, and Elizabeth wondered if the girl had the least idea how to use the thing or if desperation had impelled her.

"I hope ye can row, girl," Róisín whispered.

"I can row, shoot a musket and swim like a fish," Elizabeth replied tartly.  "You just cast off the line."

The little boat bumped against the ship's towering side like a duckling against its mother as Elizabeth steadied the oars in their locks.  Bess and Róisín both shoved as hard as they could and the boat drifted free.  Forward under the long jutting finger of the bowsprit they crept, Elizabeth firming her hands about the oars' polished shafts as she readied for strong pulling.  Do not splash, do not splash - and wood bit water in a long, clean sweep.

And they were away.  Lurching and swaying with unsteady quickness as the larger ship never did, but each pull of the oars was a stride towards freedom.  Overhead the stars gleamed above a dark, unfamiliar shore but the Southern Cross glittered like a promise on the southern horizon and the black outline of the _Royal Venture began to shrink behind them._

The shoreline beyond the distant white froth of breaking waves loomed black and unfamiliar, the only lights a handful of dim lanterns amongst what seemed to be a small town.  Knowing not whether the town would be friend or foe, however, Elizabeth set their course for blank dark trees.  They could hear the surf above the muffled bump of the oars, see phosphorescence gleaming with each rush of water on pale sand.  The _Royal Venture stood under bare poles and though lanterns still winked on her deck they heard neither cry nor shout._

"We're going to make it," Róisín said, and for the first time a smile ignited the prettiness of her face.  "Blessed Mary, we're going to make it."

Ah, but the Fates are fickle creatures who too often taunt and tease, and Sarah's thin squeak was the first alarm.

"Oh, mercy," the girl gasped, her round face a pallid orb of horror.  "They've seen us."

And Elizabeth looked up to the complete despair of her life.  There across the water other oars flashed phosphorescence and a lantern was lifted high.  A shout rang out to be answered on deck, and the lifting splash of the oars doubled in speed.

"No …" Róisín breathed, and stars glinted on the blade in her hand.  "Pull, girl, blast you!"

"I _am pulling!"_

Elizabeth clenched her white teeth and yanked with everything she had, her heels braced on the boat's ribs and her slender shoulders straining as she tried to sweep half an ocean under every stroke.  Black water surged and gurgled as she shoved it behind wooden blades, heaving so hard she nearly lifted herself from her seat - but it was not enough.  The greater brawn and four swift oars of the enemy closed the distance with horrifying swiftness.

"What do we do?" Sarah wept and a sob caught jaggedly in her throat.  "What do we do?"

"We keep -."  Again Elizabeth pulled.  "- Trying!"

"But they'll catch us!  They're coming!"

Róisín's reply was explosive but fortunately in Gaelic so none understood.  A body suddenly crowded into Elizabeth's back, long arms reaching around and hard hands seizing the oars next her own and it was silent Bess, now adding her own strength to their one desperate chance.  An instant of fumbling and the two women found a rhythm, pull and sweep, pull and sweep and for a breathless moment hope blazed anew.  Against the dark heaving sea Róisín was a silhouette gripping a cold blade.

On they came, lantern spilling its reflection in broken smears of light.  Briefly Elizabeth recalled a fragment of reading, a boatman and the River Styx - pull, damn you!

"Give it up, ladies!" came a harsh, jeering cry.  "It'll go easier if ye just surrender!"

"Not -."  Elizabeth bit back a curse as one oar skipped and missed its purchase in a weak spray of water.  "- bloody likely!"

If they could just reach the shore, black jungle would swallow them and no creature in all Jamaica's wilds held a threat equal to that which followed.

Ah, but Luck turned her face and the reaching thud of oarlocks swept the pursuer upon long before they reached the lift of the waves near the beach.  A brutal crash of wood on wood wrenched the port oar from Elizabeth's grip, and strong hands seized the side of their boat as the lantern cast ghastly shadows upon their faces.  With a shout Róisín sprang to her feet, sword slashing a wild but deadly arc.

"_Fág an bealach!" she cried, the defiance of her Irish forefathers ringing in watery darkness. "__Fág an bealach!"_

But heavy bodies surged forward and even as Elizabeth wrenched the remaining oar from its lock and into a desperate swing, it was too late.  She felt the crunch of impact and heard a cry and shouts of outrage from the men in the other boat - and then Róisín screamed in a raw, raking cry of rage and despair.  First Mate Thomas Fry watched as she collapsed like laundry cut from a line and toppled over the side with a splash.

"Róisín!"  Sarah shrieked and scrambled to grab something, anything to pull the girl from the black water.  "Help us!  Please, help us!"

To whom she pleaded none could guess, for they had neither hope nor friend this night.  Her flailing hands found an arm, a sleeve and Róisín's head broke water with a splattering gasp.  Elizabeth scrambled across the swaying boat, dropping her oar and nearly falling as she seized hold of the stricken woman.  Stronger hands reached past her and heaved the Irish woman up and over the gunwales - but there was no mercy in the hard eyes beyond.  A body slammed into Elizabeth and it was Bess dropping from a meaty smack to the face.  Desperately Bess rolled and grabbed for their only weapon but the oar was ripped from her grasp.

And in the grim flicker of lamplight stood Mister Fry, a trollish dark figure with a grin twisting his square-jawed face as he stood in the bow of the larger boat.

"Nice try, ladies.  But I reckon that's the last chance you'll ever have."

Her pretty mouth curled into a snarl as Elizabeth replied, "Don't bet on it."

"Oh, but I am, missy."  Fry leaned towards her and bared square yellow teeth.  "See, there's a special penance for the likes of you.  Anything you do … and one of your little friends here dies.  Oh yes, we picked up some extras, you might say, whilst you were havin' your bit of fun.  They'll be waitin' when you get aboard - waitin' to live or die.  Just like this one is dyin' already."

In horror she looked down, and the truth lay grey and sodden beside her.  Róisín did not move as she lay with her head in Sarah's lap, and blood slowly painted a black apron across her belly.  Only the slow blink of her lovely blue eyes told that she lived at all, reflecting the cold and pitiless glitter of the stars.

That and the stumbling movement of her lips; "Hail Mary, full of grace … the Lord is with thee …"

"All right!" bawled Fry.  "Let's get these back to the ship!"

Heavy bodies moved and the boats dipped and bumped as men changed places and Bess and Sarah were hoisted bodily into the larger craft.  As Elizabeth sank numbly into the wet bottom of the boat she had eyes only for the Irish girl's pretty, ashen face.

"Róisín …" she whispered, as enemy strength manned the oars.  "I'm sorry."

"Don't!"  Róisín's eyes glittered as her clawed fingers seized Elizabeth's arm.  "Better … this way.  I'll not live - a slave!"  Her gaze caught Elizabeth's as her fingers slipped and her voice faded; "_Go méadaí Dia thú."_

Then the stricken girl's breath hitched on a tight gasp as her features contorted fearfully.  She caught a shallow breath again and as the boats began to move back towards the ship, Elizabeth clasped her hand while Róisín whispered for peace.

"Hail Mary, full of grace … the Lord is with thee … Blessed art thou among women … and blessed is … the fruit of thy womb, Jesus …  Holy Mary, Mother of God … pray for us sinners … now and at the hour of our death …"

Dark water gurgled and slapped against the hull as the black, stinking bulk of the slave ship _Royal Venture loomed and shut out the stars._

***

TBC …

*Translation of Gaelic:

_Fág an bealach!_ - Clear the way!  (An ancient Irish battle cry.)   
_Go méadaí Dia thú._ - May God prosper you, God bless you.


	12. Chapter 12 In Motion

**PIRATES OF THE **CARIBBEAN******: THE AFRICAN STAR**

**By ErinRua**

CHAPTER 12

Morning blazed in golden glory across the little harbor as the crew of the _Black Pearl_ made their way from whatever beds they had found - some had simply passed out on the beach - and loaded their duffle aboard the ship's boats.  A number of them seemed to be squinting rather a lot, though whether it was the brilliance of dawn on the sea or a hangover was hard to say.  Out in deeper water, the _Pearl_ lay waiting at anchor.

Will had very little gear of his own; the plumed hat that would be stowed below decks, a change of clothes wrapped in a single blanket, and his sword.  He stood half-asleep in a queue of men loading one boat, pondering how mad he must truly be to board what was arguably the most notorious pirate ship in the Caribbean.  Hard, unlovely faces surrounded him, visages worn to permanent sets of narrowed eyes and keen stares by the harsh governance of men and the sea.  Every man here was but a step away from the noose and he dared not think what the litany of their crimes must be.  Even weathered old Cotton, the mute, harbored some hidden darkness, for what enemy or what crime could result in a man's tongue being cut from his head?

Yet these men, that ship were the only tools he had, since he dared not trust that Commodore Norrington could find a pretext to stop and board the _Royal Venture_ a second time.  One simply did not accost or detain a man of Sir John Biltmore's caliber for trifles.  Which left Will with no choices at all.  Of a sudden he found himself wondering just when and how his long lost father, "Bootstrap" Bill, had slid from the life of an honest sailor to that of a pirate alongside Jack Sparrow.  Did you run out of choices too, Father?

A bump and a sharp elbow jolted him back to the present.  "Sorry -." Will's apology fumbled and collapsed as he realized the floppy hat in front of him belonged to Anamaria.

As the woman's dark eyes pinned him he mustered a contrite smile and said, "Good morning."

Amusement warmed her expression, then, and she shook her head.  "Wake up, Will Turner.  Out there a man ends up dead, he don't pay attention."

"I know."  He glanced ahead to make sure he was not about to collide with anyone else.  "I was just … thinking."

"Havin' second thoughts, eh?"

"No."  And certainty washed over him as he lifted his chin and met her gaze squarely.  "I've chosen my path and I'll hold to it."

"But not without wakin' your conscience."

"No, it's not that…."  Will frowned as he pondered.  "I am certain there is no way within the law that would see Elizabeth safe.  Or at least not soon enough."

"You're a funny man, Turner."  Sunlight glinted in the coffee-hued depths of her eyes as she looked at him.  "You live in your town with all its laws and rules, sayin' who can do what and who bows to whom.  And you think you know what's right and proper.  But you're quick enough to toss all that out when it suits you."

Prickly though he knew Anamaria could be, Will was not prepared for an examination of his morals from her.  He in fact found the idea sat poorly with him.

"I do what is right."

"Do you?  Then you think you have a right to do whatever it takes to get your lady back?"

Ahead of them wood thudded hollowly as men and gear were loaded into the boats.  However, Will held his place in the sand and replied firmly.

"I'll do what I must."

"So do we."  Anamaria heaved her duffel into the boat, then turned back to seize Will's bundle and tossed it in after.  "Remember that.  Whatever you see while aboard the _Black Pearl, whatever we do, we do what we must to live and stay alive."_

Then she just stood watching him, slim and dark and fierce as a mongoose, and it occurred to him that she was waiting for some sort of response.

"I'll remember."

"Good."

"Anamaria …."

She halted in mid-turn and he hesitated awkwardly.  "Who are - I think the names were Ogun and Erzulie?"

For an instant the _mulatta woman simply stared at him, her brown face unreadable.  "Where you hear those names?"_

"An old man I saw here yesterday.  I was just going to sleep after arriving when I saw him, and we spoke.  He said some rather strange things."

"Such as?"

"I don't remember it all."  Will frowned under Anamaria's continued fixed stare, wondering what hidden thing he had just pricked.  "Something about a crossroads and I must chose the right way.  I'm sure it was all nonsense, he was quite elderly, but he mentioned those names to me."  With a soft chuckle of embarrassment he added, "He said I should listen to Erzulie, but Ogun knows who I am."

Sunlight played on the soft planes of Anamaria's face as the sea breeze lifted tousled black hair against her neck.  Her mouth tightened.

"Nothin' a white boy like you needs to trouble his head about."

"Anamaria -."

"Some things you don't mess with!" she said fiercely.  "Just never you mind."

"But Anamaria …" He offered a tentative smile.  "Won't you at least tell me if it's another curse?  I'd like to know if I should start avoiding moonlight."

She sighed, for though he knew it not, his eternally guileless sincerity found chinks in her armor that no amount of masculine charm or sweet-talk ever would.  "Not a curse.  It's … it's just old superstitions.  Things people like to talk about when there's a ring around the moon or a strange wind."

Will's gaze held hers with gentle amusement.  "That's what people like me are supposed to think.  But that's not what you think, is it?"

He was also far cleverer than that earnest, honest face would suggest, and Anamaria scowled.  "I'll tell you, but then you don't talk about it no more, hear?"

"All right."

He meant it, too, she saw that clear as day, and she gave an exasperated sigh that such an innocent had come among pirates.  Setting her fists on her hips she began to speak, and her gaze challenged him to so much as think of grinning at her explanation.

"Erzulie and Ogun be loa, spirits you call them.  Erzulie is the loa of love and dreams, great love, and the hurts of the world grieve her.  Ogun … he be the loa of war and iron and fire.  Very powerful and a strong benefactor, but dangerous."  Then she gave a toss of her head and pivoted away.  "Now you know.  And now you can forget about it."

"But why?"  Will hastened to catch up, sloshing into the water and seizing the gunnels of the boat as other hands began to ship her off the sand into the waiting waves.

Anamaria's reply was sharp as the boat slid and lurched into floating.  "Because some things are better left alone by people who don't know nothin' about them.  Be a smart boy and remember that."

With a splash she sprang lightly into the boat.  Will stared after her for an instant - and ducked as a rush of blue feathers shot past his head.  Cotton's parrot swooped into the boat to its master's shoulder.

There it ruffled its wings and squawked, "Pieces of eight!  Pieces of eight!"

With a last glance towards shore Will heaved himself aboard, and Cotton and Tearlach picked up the oars.  Gentle surf lifted them as they set their course for the dark ship waiting at anchor.

***

The _Black Pearl that Will Turner sailed on now was not the __Black Pearl upon whose decks he had stood as Captain Barbossa's captive almost a year ago.  Then she had been a half-dead thing with an undead crew, sodden in the bilges and running like a horse before the lash, with no heart in her speed and no life in her tattered sails.  But now - aye, now she was a warhorse charging a running sea, a tempest racing the tides, and her joy sang in the wind in her rigging._

With the brilliance of the Caribbean all around them, Will stood on the cap-rail at the bow, a tight grip on the stays, and leaned into her flight as if to outrun the cares that weighed upon his heart.  Here he and the _Pearl surged on the backs of strong blue waves, before each downward plunge left his stomach somewhere above.  Even so, his legs bent to the heave of the sea as if born to it, and it almost seemed that the __Pearl knew his urgency and rose in answer to his desperate hopes._

"You get it in your blood," announced a familiar drawling voice.  "And there's no getting it out."

Turning his face into the wind Will looked down at Jack Sparrow, standing wide-legged on the deck.  The pirate had shed his coat for a thigh-length waistcoat over dingy white shirtsleeves, but his trademark sash and belt still clasped his waist.  For a moment he stood with his gaze fixed on the rise and fall of the horizon, as firmly in his place as the winged figurehead at the ship's bow.

When he looked up at Will his black eyes gleamed beneath the point of his disreputable tricorn hat.  "Now you see her wings, boy.  Now you see what the _Pearl really is."_

Uncertain how to respond to this oddly poetic turn, Will instead opted for silence and glanced upwards into the sails swelling taut against the blue sky.  Dark as oil smoke they were, not the bright blazing gull-wings that drove other square-riggers, yet he realized there was a strange beauty to be found in her.  Whereas before she had been but a grim, bullying thug, she was now a dark and lethal huntress.

"You've done a lot of work on her," he said.

"Once Barbossa was gone, may he rot in the seventh circle of hell, there was little left to drive the old _Pearl but pure stubbornness," Jack replied.  He shifted to lay a hand on the rail, a consoling pat to the shoulder of an old friend.  "Least I could do was get her shipshape again."_

The young blacksmith waited a beat until the ship once again climbed a watery slope, and dropped to the deck.  Aft he spied Anamaria's lithe figure at the helm, black hair tossing beneath a ragged hat.

"That must have cost you.  Not everything can be gotten by looting merchant vessels."

Jack merely gave a wise smile.  "I have my means and ways.  And that brings me to the point in mind, which is that I really should have you sign me articles."

"Your what?"

"Ship's articles.  Same as all the crew.  Of course if you can't write, you can simply make your mark."

"I can write!" Will bristled at the sly smirk on Jack's face.  "I just don't see the need to sign anything.  I'm not a member of your crew."

Raising a stiff finger in reprimand, Sparrow arched his eyebrows and said, "There are no passengers on a pirate ship, boy.  Only pirates and prisoners, of which you are certainly not the second."

"Nor am I a pirate."  Will turned away to scowl across the glittering water.

"Ah!"  Sparrow flung both hands up as if to catch that thought before it could go any further. "But you _are standing your watches, manning the sheets, swabbin' the decks, paintin' the hatch covers, splicin' lines with Gibbs, and if I was not mistaken, that was you washing pots in the galley not an hour past."  He gave a guileless smile as Will glared at him.  "Seems a shame to work you so with no recompense.  It may be a long voyage."_

"I see no point in standing about being useless.  But I want nothing but Elizabeth safe."

"Yes, yes, I got all that.  Look, Will, do us a favor, aye?"  Jack stepped closer - too close, but he apparently thought this was a good way to irritate people into compliance - and opened his hands beseechingly.  "Sign the ruddy things?  You can give your share to the widows and orphans fund if it pleases you, but the crew will rest easier knowin' you've agreed to the same conditions and rules as us all."

"The crew?"  Standing his ground despite Jack's pleading expression, Will said, "I find it hard to believe a crew of pirates has the least worry about me."

"But they do, mate," Jack assured him earnestly.  "You've a bit of a reputation, it's true, what with you being Bootstrap's son and helping me steal a British warship and finishing off Barbossa and all that, but at the moment you're rather a loose cannon, if you get my meaning."

"I'M a loose cannon?  They're bloody pirates!"

A gold-toothed grin flashed.  "And so are you, mate, at least so far as the _Royal Venture_ is concerned.  Look, it's a simple and painless thing, a mere formality, really, so just please make your mark and be done with it."

With a sigh that was equal parts growl, Will looked at his feet.  "I think it's ridiculous."

"But …?"

"But I'll sign."

"Splendid!"  Sparrow grinned delightedly and pressed both palms together with a brief bow.  "I feel much better."

"Jack …."

"Aye?"

"What happens now?  I mean … what happens now?"

"Ah, that."  Hand on hip, Jack launched into a breezy explanation.  "Well, we sail and we wait and we apply the old looking glass to every sail on the horizon betwixt here and Hispaniola.  And when it's the right one - apparently if she's upwind she'll be that much easier to identify - we make chase.  Then we board her, and we'll do what we do, you'll do -," he waved vaguely, "whatever you do, and we all go away happy.  All that is but the master of the _Royal Venture_, whom I am sure we will leave exceedingly UNhappy.  Unless of course you intend to kill him."

Sparrow peered at Will.  Will scowled back.  "I am not a murderer, Jack.  I fight only when I must."

"Oh, good.  Then I won't worry about you offending me sensibilities." Ignoring the longsuffering look that appeared on Will's face, Jack gave a rakish grin.  "I'm actually glad you're on board, Will.  Seems almost like old times, the _Black Pearl and the son of Bootstrap Bill."_

"It's not old times, Jack!  I'm not a …."  But he was talking to Sparrow's retreating back as the captain sauntered aft.  "I'm not a pirate," he finished weakly, and sighed from the soles of his shoes.

Canvas ruffled somewhere high overhead, and he glowered up into the rigging.  "And no comments from you, either."

Then it dawned on him that the canvas noise probably meant a sail was out of trim, and he took himself off to ask Gibbs - or someone - which line to tighten to fix it.  He liked Jack, he truly did, but the man made an industry of being absolutely aggravating.

***

"You know your punishment, then?"

The grating voice rasped as if dragged up a set of broken cellar stairs, and Elizabeth could almost have laughed at the ridiculousness of such a charade, just as she could almost laugh at the absurd red silk mask that shielded the speaker's face.  Only the eyes were visible, glinting through carefully stitched holes, and that's where the urge for laughter died.  Cold those eyes were, devoid of human feeling and simmering with latent brutality that the powerful size of the man could easily enforce.

"My punishment?" she spat, and yanked futilely at the hard hands clasping her arms from behind.  "You 'punish' only the weak and innocent!  I know who you are, Sir John, and I swear - ."

"SPEAK NOT THAT NAME!"  In an instant he was on his feet and she flinched back.

"Why do you do this?" she cried desperately.  "How can you _possibly_ think you will get away with such villainy?"

"I already have."

The big man's rasping voice quieted to a sound like gravel under an iron rake, and he stepped around the ornate table that dominated the captain's cabin.  Across the room a silent black servant crouched polishing a pair of shoes, the same African man the girls had assaulted in their escape attempt, yet he worked as if oblivious to the entire scenario.  Elizabeth felt her neck hairs crawl as she fixed her attention on the eyes staring from behind her captor's crimson mask.

"Know this, young miss.  You do not _know who I am.  My voice is not familiar.  You have never actually seen the name on this ship.  You have never seen, and will not see, the face of her master.  In short, Miss Swann, you have nothing to prove that our ways ever crossed, save for one … interesting day in Port Royal."_

Fear and fury rose nigh to choking and Elizabeth hated the trembling in her voice.  "I know who you are!  Commodore Norrington already suspects you, and my father -."

"Is powerless here."  He raised a hand to touch her cheek, and chuckled as she jerked back with a furious glare.  "No proof have you that any court of law could sustain, neither face nor name.  This Sir John you speak of … does not exist here.  You are a prisoner, Miss Swann, a slave, and I have particular plans for you.  Oh, yes."

At her indrawn breath his grating false voice slowed, as if a smile grew beneath the scarlet mask.  "You will not be touched or sullied, have no fear of that.  Yet.  Your new master demands that for his was a very special order, and you were a most fortuitous find.  But you are a spoiled and pampered child, my girl.  For too long you have needed only to speak, and the world leapt to the crook of your dainty finger."

The big man stepped away, clasping gloved hands behind him as he stared out the mullioned panes of the cabin windows.  "Henceforth, should your willfulness overcome you again, your punishment will be to watch my wrath be visited upon those 'innocents' for whom you so protest."

He turned his head, face hideously blank beneath its crimson façade.  "They will weep and suffer the pain that should rightfully be yours.  As your little friend died the death that should have been yours."  The masked man paused.  "Once again, you have cost me.  That girl would have won me a pretty price.  Take her out, lads - and see that she is witness when you dispose of that Irish slattern's body.  Oh, but one more thing …"

Elizabeth could hear the evil smile behind the mask, as the captain added, "You will also see the punishment that comes to those who fail in their duties to me.  Take her out!"

The hard grip of First Mate Fry propelled her out the door, her last view of the captain's cabin being a black hand with a white cloth, methodically buffing a highly-polished shoe.  Outside a breeze whipped tangled hair about Elizabeth's face and filled the sails high above.  Sunlight beamed across sparkling blue waters as the ship rose and sank before the wind, but she saw only the still form laid on the deck, lifeless as a doll in tangled skirts.

She fancied she felt the eyes of the others upon her; Sarah with her pretty, chubby face blanched completely devoid of color, handsome dark Bess silent as if carved from ebony, and the others.  There were five newcomers aboard the slave ship now, young women notably fair of face and form, but all in the plain, simple dress of servants or other working classes.  Slaves-to-be, taken from farms or hamlets where no one had the means or voice to rouse a hunt.  Together they stood huddled and wind-blown and utterly lost.  As further chastisement all their shoes had been taken, and now their bare feet pinched together self-consciously beneath their skirts.

No one spoke as Mister Fry and bo'sun's mate Mister Stone bent to pick up the body.  A limp arm flopped from their awkward grasp and Elizabeth turned her face away.  Then they stepped and heaved and a flutter of calico skirts was all that marked Róisín's passing.  The ship was already surging onwards when the dull splash reached their ears.

"Remember …" growled a rough voice in Elizabeth's ear.

She stiffened and felt the presence step away, but held her head high as once again Fry seized her slender arm from behind.  His breath brushed her neck in a noisome caress.

"Got somethin' else for you to see, pet.  A little treat, if you will, for you to muse on."

He turned her and marched her a dozen paces aft - where she jerked to a halt with a strangled gasp.  There, spread over a cannon with his arms splayed and cruelly tied, lay a man and his back was a bloody ruin.  Every mark of the lash oozed livid and the only movement was the trembling of his buckled knees.

"That's the poor fool what let you bash 'im in the head for your escape," Fry said.  "Cap'n was not pleased.  Your lesson for today, miss."

Elizabeth was numb and silent while she and the others were herded aft towards their dark, dank cell.  Oh, but she would remember.

She would remember everything.

***

TBC …

**A/N:** _ I have been emailing an announcement of each new chapter I post to everyone who expressed interest in this story and had a visible email address.  If you have reviewed on FF.net or emailed me and you are not getting these notices, then probably your email system thinks I'm spam.  Now I'll admit to being a ham at times and even to getting egg on my face, but I have never  been Spam … *ahem*  Anywho, so blame your email spam-filters if you think you should be getting my notices and you are not!  :-)_


	13. Chapter 13 Laying in Wait

**PIRATES OF THE **CARIBBEAN******: THE AFRICAN STAR**

**By ErinRua**

CHAPTER 13

"Captain!"  A shout rang from the foretop.  "There's somethin' in the water, about a cable's length off the port bow!"

Sparrow tilted his head to squint upwards through the forest of dark sails.  "What sort of something?"

"A body, I think!  It's just floatin'!  There, you see it?  I think it's a woman!"

Jack turned towards the rail and was nearly bowled over by Will Turner's flying arrival.  For an instant he thought the lad would pitch right over the side, but he merely leaped to the ratlines where he hung peering across the water.  Indeed something did float about three hundred yards out, and Jack pulled his spy glass from his pocket to look.

"Jack - what is it?"

A moment to focus ….

"Jack!"

"Steady, mate."  Yet Sparrow's jaw tightened at what the glass revealed and with a sharp click he collapsed its length.  "Loose sheets to lie-to!  I want a boat in the water."

He did not even think to order Will to stay behind, as he leapt into the lowering boat.

It was not her.  Will resumed breathing as burly Tearlach reached a boathook gently as he could to nudge the half-submerged body closer to their boat.  The blanched face, strikingly pretty even in the waxen stillness of death, was not Elizabeth Swann.  The boat jostled as Jack leaned to look, his own face scrunching in an uneasy grimace.

Softly Will asked, "What do you think happened?  Did she fall overboard?"

Water slapped and gurgled as the body floated alongside, unseen currents gently playing in the soft brown locks of her hair, spreading it upon a watery pillow.  Cold as a snuffed candle those sweet features were, yet one wondered how she may have looked when alight with laughter or passion.  Behind them one of the men murmured something that could have been a superstitious prayer.  Jack however peered at the body with a contorted expression somewhere between revulsion and morbid fascination.

Then he abruptly announced, "Not likely."

He reached gingerly outboard to touch sodden cloth, where it was darker than the rest of the material.  "Water's carried most of it away, but she bled before she went in the water."

As he sat back Sparrow flicked his fingers dry.  "Someone killed this girl."

Tearlach's brief rumble asked the question no one had.  "What do we do with 'er, cap'n?"

The pirate captain's eyes were very dark as he replied, "A canvas shroud and a ballast stone.  That's the best we can do for her."

Beside him Will clenched a fist and bowed his head, and his shoulders were rigid as wooden oxbows.

Some while later the solemn deck of the _Black Pearl_ came alive once more.  "Hands to make sail!" Sparrow shouted.

Anamaria's sharp voice rang in echo, barking commands as men leaped to the rigging and smoke-grey sails bloomed above.  At the helm Sparrow gripped the wheel firmly, his eyes narrowed to the play of wind on canvas, his arms taut against the pull of the rudder.  He was aware of the silent figure standing abaft his shoulder but chose not to look, not until the _Pearl_ lifted her head to the wind and bright water curled at her bows.

Only then did he speak.  "You don't know that woman was aboard the same ship."

Will's reply was clipped.  "And you don't know she was not."

The _Pearl reached for her wind like a hound to a scent, even without full canvas. Something in the ship seemed to mirror something in her master, and Will turned his head to narrowly study Jack's profile._

"You think as I do, Jack.  The _Royal Venture is ahead of us.  I can almost smell her."_

Aye, Sparrow knew that look in the boy, the curl of the lip that bespoke fine disdain for fear or hesitation - and occasionally an alarming recklessness.  There were times when the simmering fire of Bootstrap Bill's temperament was all too evident in his son.

"If I do, mate, I'm still keepin' me wits sharp.  Away out yonder is Hispaniola, and even if the French chose to ignore us, the Spaniards 'ave no reason to love us."

He knew without looking that Will had bowed his head, though the lad's brooding stubbornness would not relent.

"If you want to be useful," Jack drawled, "You can relieve Matty in the foretops and stand lookout."

"All right."

Sparrow pasted on a heavy scowl.  "And no wool-gatherin', savvy?  I don't want to sail us into the arms of the Royal Navy. "

Will's head came up with a jerk and his gaze focused, regained clarity.  "I'm on my way."

Then the young blacksmith was gone, bounding down the ladder to the lower deck.  Sparrow watched him until the lanky form stepped up to the ratlines and began clambering skywards.  Will would do his job, that bit of a jab to his pride would assure that.  Better he had something to occupy his mind than chewing over dark thoughts that could only keep a man awake at night.  But whatever came, he had a cold feeling they would all need clear heads in the days to come.

Then he shook himself back to the task at hand, and tried not to see a lovely girl with the look of all lost Ireland stamped on her dead face.  Best to focus on his plans for a certain perfect gem, a diamond that was the envy of kings and soon to rest in the hand of Captain Jack Sparrow.  Yes.  A sly smile crept across Jack's face.  Perhaps young Will could be more valuable than he anticipated.  After all, every hunter could use an eager hound.

***

Hispaniola.  Beneath a scorching Caribbean sun the first landfall appeared as little more than a smudge of cloud on the eastern horizon, but ere long birds came wheeling and crying on the wind, gliding through the blue on long slopes of air.  The _Black Pearl_ beat northeast against the prevailing trade winds on long, easy tacks, Sparrow's skilled hand at the helm holding her steadily full and by the wind.  Will recognized the headland of Cape Dona Maria from his foray to Tortuga the year before, when he and Jack shepherded a stolen Royal Navy brig to pick up a crew for the pursuit of Captain Barbossa and rescue of Elizabeth Swann and the _Black Pearl_.  Now they had the _Pearl and they had a willing crew, but their mission was no less dire._

As the leagues slid by Will readily accepted another turn at lookout duty, for though he neither feared nor shunned any work, he had not mastered an able seaman's skills above deck.  However, keen eyes and an agile mind could be put to other uses.  High in the crow's nest he swayed between sun and deep water and the world bent away before him in a broad blue haze.  At times the topmast leaned slowly so that he hung over nothing but water, and then it leaned back so he looked down to the impossibly small wooden island of deck below.

Occasionally there were other sails far out on the waters leading to the Windward Passage between Cuba and Hispaniola, glimmering fragments of white that forged on their own mysterious journeys.  But upon scrutiny of size and shape through Sparrow's spy glass, the _Pearl kept away and let them pass unmolested.  Grimly Will kept his vigil, for somewhere sailed the _Royal Venture_; somewhere Elizabeth needed him._

At last vibration in the rigging told him that someone was climbing up.  A moment later the tousled red head of Matty Whitlock poked above the edge of the crow's nest.

The pirate offered a horse-toothed grin and said, "Cap'n says I got the watch now."

Long and gangling as if built of bundled sticks, Matty's beak-like nose and protruding Adams apple were nearly matched in size and his wide blue eyes seemed set in an expression of perpetual surprise.  Those eyes were, however, acknowledged to be the keenest aboard the _Black Pearl and so Matty often found himself posted as lookout.  Not that he minded, and his grin remained in place as he clambered up next to Will, crowding the small platform._

"See anything?" he asked.

"Not a thing," Will sighed.

"Aye."  Matty bobbed his head and shaped his thin, freckled features into a glum expression.  "But we'll find 'er, mark my words.  Cap'n Sparrow's got a nose for such things, 'e does."

Whether he referred to Elizabeth or the _Royal Venture_, Will did not know, but he wished he could take those assurances to heart.  What if they simply missed the slave ship's course?  What if she passed beyond their knowing sometime in the night or amidst a morning haze and Elizabeth was sold into bondage before he could ever find her?  Cuba lay somewhere to northward and Hispaniola crouched off their starboard side.  And in between was all that empty water ….

"Wot ye goin' to do wi' your share o' the loot?"

Startled, Will looked at the grinning face beside him.  "What?"

"Your share o' the loot."  Pale blue eyes twinkled merrily.  "Cap'n says ye signed th' articles, so when we sack the _Royal Venture_, you gets a share o' the plunder same as us.  O' course, it'll be a littler share on account of you're new 'ere, but it should fetch ye a tidy purse.  So wot ye goin' to do wi' it?"

Biting back his opinions of pirates and thieves, Will shook his head.  "I just want Elizabeth safe."

"Ah."  Matty nodded wisely.  "The girl.  She's pretty, eh?"

"She's beautiful."

He sighed before he could stop himself, but the lanky pirate simply nodded once more.

"A trim an' shapely craft does that to a man, they say.  I fancied a girl once, but she went off and married a baker."  One bony shoulder lifted in a philosophical shrug.  "Her loss, sez I."  His long teeth gleamed cheerfully again.  "I reckon I'll 'ave silver enough to 'old a girl's attention, when we're through!"

Knowing he had probably seen Matty's sort of girl, during his brief but memorable stop amongst the rum-houses of Tortuga, Will could only muster a squeamish smile.  "I'm sure you will."

"Ye know wot I want to buy?"

Will lifted his eyebrows in silent query, and was amused to see the other's grin take on a rosy glow of embarrassment.

"Ye promise not t' laugh or tell?"

"On my honor," he replied.

"Right.  Well, I'll tell ye."  Matty set his freckled face forward into the sun.  "I want a fiddle."

"A fiddle?"

"Ye said ye'd not laugh!"

"I'm not laughing!  I'm just … surprised."

"Well, that's all right then.  But I want a fiddle.  I learnt t' play away back, and a bloke back there in New Town 'ad a fiddle wot 'e let me play.  After this voyage I'm buyin' me a nice one wit' a sweet voice."

Befriending anyone on the _Pearl's pirate crew was not on Will's list of priorities, but he remembered the merry fiddle that had so skillfully accompanied Irish John's singing across the campfire.  Oddly, he realized he really could not find offense in this cheerful if uncouth fellow and he looked at the freckled pirate beside him and smiled._

"I think that would be a fine thing."

Matty bobbed his head again.  "Me too.  They make a 'appy sound.  I like that.  Man needs to hear 'appy sounds sometimes. 'Ere, wot's that?"

He leaned sharply forward and Will pivoted to follow his stare.  Tiny sails shimmered far away in the sun, the white sails of a square-rigger reaching away towards Hispaniola's distant shore.  Will fumbled Jack's looking glass from his waistcoat pocket and extended it to full length to peer through it.  Then he handed it to Matty, nudging the pirate's arm.

"Here.  What do you make her?"

For a long moment both held still, oblivious to the sway of the mast between them.  Matty squinted through the glass seeming to scarcely breathe.

"C'mon, love," he murmured.  "Let's 'ave a look at ye …."

Finally, the glass still to one eye, he said thoughtfully, "She's a brig.  Good-sized one.  Might be our girl."

"Sail, ho!" Will shouted and then filled his lungs, leaned over the edge and bellowed downward for all he was worth.  "SAIL, HO!  Starboard bow!"

Then he swung down and into the rigging with reckless speed, scrambling towards the deck below.

***

It was the _Royal Venture.  The long rays of the sinking sun spilled across the Caribbean Sea by the time the _Black Pearl_ was close enough to clearly identify her prey, and even then she held back on the very edge of visual contact.  For Sir John Biltmore had veered from his northeasterly course and turned inland, towards the vast bay the charts marked as Cul de sac de Leogane.  Around the northerly tip of the Isle of Gonave the slave ship sailed, with the __Pearl little more than a smoky ghost on the horizon._

Amidships Will gripped the starboard rail so that his knuckles were white.  His teeth clenched as he watched the flash of distant canvas recede towards Hispaniola's shore.

"He said Port Paix.  I know he said Port Paix."

"And probably he did."  Jack Sparrow stood beside him, watching the same sails with narrowed eyes.  "But Saint Marc comes first, and a shrewd businessman is not going to pass up a good prospect."

Will wheeled with eyes ablaze.  "A good prospect for what?  To sell those poor girls to the highest bidder?  For me to lose Elizabeth?  Why have we taken in sail?  We need to catch him!"

"William, me boy …."  Jack patted the air between them in a pacifying gesture.  "I know what you're thinking -."

"Do you?"  The young man's gaze was fierce as he took a step closer.

"Indubitably."  Jack hooked his thumbs in his belt and beamed a mocking golden smile.  "You wish to fly to the rescue, damn all hazards and save the fair maiden with no thought for cost or peril to your gallant and faithful self.  Right?"

Wordlessly Will scowled.

"Wrong!"  Jack widened his eyes and then he spun tipsily away.

"Jack, if you -."

"You're not thinkin' like a pirate, mate.  Anamaria!  Set our course that way, if you please."

Perhaps not the most nautical directive ever heard, but the helmsman - helmswoman - understood the ostentatious wave of his hand well enough.  They would alter course towards the barren Isle of Gonave.

Will found himself following and talking to the back of Sparrow's head as the pirate captain ambled forward.  "Then tell me, Jack, how does a pirate think?"

"Sneakily, mate," came the reply.  "We must bide and choose the right time."

"Which is?"

Sparrow swung in a flurry of beaded braids to face him again, forefinger raised to command attention.  He spoke one word.

"Dark."

"Dark?"  In sudden interest Will cocked his head and regarded the gleam in Jack's black eyes.  "Dark is good."

***

TBC …****

A/N:  _It's not my practice to thank all reviewers by name, simply because I also hear from readers by email and other means, and I'd feel terrible if I left any deserving soul out.  Therefore, I hope it does not seem redundant or shallow if I repeat myself by saying how much I appreciate everyone's continuing words of critique and encouragement.  This is the first sea-faring tale I've ever written and sometimes I look at the growing scope of this thing and fear I've bitten off more than I can chew.  However … the beauty of fan fiction is a live audience and I can't say enough how much I appreciate you all.  Thank you ever so humbly.  ~ E._

_P.S.  Batten the hatches, there is a lot more to come!_  :-)


	14. Chapter 14 An Unexpected Turn

**PIRATES OF THE **CARIBBEAN******: THE AFRICAN STAR**

**By ErinRua**

CHAPTER 14

Dark seemed a long time coming, however, as the _Royal Venture_ receded into the golden evening haze towards St. Marc, some twenty miles across the bay. The _Black Pearl_ took up station to wait in a cove shielded by a rocky point near the Isle of Gonave's northern tip.  It was close enough to the wind to move when need be, but as the Caribbean sun sank behind the island's spine and twilight crept from the jungle slopes to fill the cove, the black ship would be lost to all but the cleverest eye.  If spotted, with her dark sails furled the _Pearl__ hopefully would pass for nothing more than an honest vessel stopped to take on water or wood.  Slowly the evening shadows grew longer._

"Original John 'as supper ready in the galley."

At mention of their Goliath of a pirate, Will turned towards the source of the voice and frowned.  "Since when does he cook?  And what is he cooking?"

Jack shrugged.  "Didn't ask.  And you probably don't want to know."

Wincing, Will decided to let that subject die and looked out of their shadowed cove towards Hispaniola, where the _Royal Venture_ was now lost to view.  "Elizabeth is over there.  I hope she has faith that help is coming.  You do have a plan, right, Jack?"

"Of course I do!"  The pirate captain drew himself up as if in affront.  "Jack Sparrow always has a plan."  When Will failed to look impressed, Jack leaned towards him while tapping his own scarf-wrapped temple.  "It's all right 'ere.  Trust me, mate."

Will snorted and said, "And that's supposed to comfort me?"

As the blacksmith disappeared towards the companionway, Sparrow's smile wilted and he barely smothered a sigh.

"What _is in that 'ead of yers, Jack?"_

Sparrow did not have to look to identify that gruff voice.  "Frenchmen, Gibbs.  These are their waters, and yonder bay does not offer the sea room I'd like, if it comes to trouble."

The _Pearl's first mate nodded, squinting out across the sunset-coppered waters as he scratched his graying mutton-chop whiskers.  "Aye, and too many eyes ashore.  What are ye thinkin', then?  Wait and catch 'im out in the open channel?"_

"Seems the best course."

"Young Will won't take kindly to that.  Imaginin' all sorts of dire and dreadful things, 'e is, and to be so close … You don't think Biltmore will dispose of 'is more 'special cargo' at St. Marc's, do ye?" Gibbs scrunched his round face in an uncertain look as he pulled his flask from a pocket.  "Do the French fancy such things?"

With an earnest smile, Jack raised his hands as if shaping the idea he spoke.  "Think about it, mate.  Where does a man like Sir John Biltmore go to get the most for his cargo?  To the town with the most silver in it.  A village like St. Marc's, with a few fishermen and a dried up vicar, will 'ave no use for a bevy of lovely ladies or a cargo of silk and silver.  Port Paix is another fish entirely, the Paris of the Caribbean, and it's just a skip and a jump from 'is Spanish friends in Cuba."  His grin gained a few more teeth as he added, "And nobody cares if we shoot at Spaniards."

"Sail, ho!"  A shout rang from their lookout, for even at rest the _Black Pearl_ dared not relax vigilance.  "Port bow - looks like she's headin' straight for us!

Gibbs nearly choked on a swig from his flask as he and Sparrow wheeled towards the direction indicated - and found themselves staring at a jaunty little sloop.  Typical of her type she was fore-and-aft-rigged with a single mast, which bore one large trapezoidal mainsail and a small square topsail, while in the rigging above her bow a triangular jib sail was stretched.  Her canvas swelled with a brisk offshore wind - and she was heading directly towards their hidden cove.

"Avast, me hearties!" screeched Cotton's parrot.

"'E's comin' all right," said Gibbs.  "Looks like 'e'll be here a lot quicker than 'e'll like."

Jack wasted no time.  "Gibbs, get someone on the deck guns!  Anamaria, get me some muskets!"

Such a small craft, at best only eighty feet long, was of no real threat to the towering _Black Pearl, but the fact remained that they were pirates.  Thus any encounter held the possibility of violence and their own ship lay dead in the water.  The deck was instantly a-scramble as men rushed to ready their defense, and Sparrow stood narrow-eyed as he watched the sleek little boat's approach.  It appeared the newcomer had not seen the __Pearl lurking here in the shadows, but then a sudden flutter of movement on deck and a heavy ripple in her main sail revealed that the discovery had been made._

The bowsprit of the sloop veered outward, but one simply does not stop a flying boat with her sails full of wind.  In a twinkling she was within the shadowed cove and without escape, unless she wished to shatter herself upon the rocky shoals at the cove's mouth.  Obviously her crew had not expected to find anyone here.

"Cap'n," Gibbs shouted.  "She's got four cannons on her decks, but nobody on 'em."

"Stand ready," Sparrow called.  "But hold your fire."

Will Turner burst up the companionway and slid to a halt at Jack's side.  "Who are they?"

"No idea," Jack replied.

"Maybe they're just local fishermen."

"Fishing with cannon?" Sparrow lifted his eyebrows. "I'd hate to see their catch of the day."

Right past the _Pearl's bow the smaller craft swept, her sails luffing awkwardly as the helmsman sought desperately for sea room - but too late.  She had nowhere to go but deeper into the cove, and her only way out was now blocked by a hulking black pirate ship several times her size._

Then of all absurd things, small blossoms of smoke burst in a staccato ripple at the sloop's near rail and musket shots battered the peace.  In the next blink little wooden drumbeats thunked the side of the Pearl, for all the world as if unruly children hurled stones at a behemoth.

"They're shootin' at us!" someone cried in disbelief.  "They're bloody shootin!"

Now the pirate ship swarmed with men bearing weapons from cutlasses and pistols to four old muskets.  On the starboard side crews stood ready by several of her deck guns, and Cotton's parrot flapped up into the rigging where it ruffled its feathers fiercely.

"Mister Gibbs!" Sparrow shouted.  "A salute to those people, if you please - put one across her stern -" he dropped his voice to grumble, "- since her bow is obviously not going anywhere but on the beach."

At Gibbs' signal Tearlach dipped his smoldering linstock to a cannon's breech and a thunderous smoking boom belched across the cove.  Water splashed and skipped past the sloop's rear and the heads poking above her rail vanished.  Her sails collapsed to empty canvas as she lost her wind, and she was now drifting as if rudderless into shallow water near the shore.

"Bloody idiots!" Sparrow growled.  "Don't they see we could blast them to smithereens?"

Another volley of smokey musket fire burst back towards them.  Something like a large, very angry bee whipped between Jack's and Will's heads.

"Apparently not," Will replied.

"Mister Gibbs!" Jack cried.  "Once more - and this time act like you mean it!"

Another cannon bellowed and lunged back.  As birds flew up from the darkening trees a hole appeared in the sloop's small topsail.

Again the muskets popped their reply and more little thuds hammered into the _Pearl's hull - and punched nasty little holes in her furled mainsail._

"Bloody hell!" Sparrow screeched.  He spun about to fling a rigid arm towards the offending boat and bawled, "Stop those people shootin' at my ship!  Will - where the devil are you?  Will!"

"Right here, Jack."  The young blacksmith eyed him quizzically from the same spot he'd been standing all along, not arm's reach away.

Jack's dark face was a contorted mask of frustrated wrath, and for an instant Will wondered if he would leap right off the deck.  Or perhaps simply jump up and down where he stood.

"Take six men and get over there - I don't care how, I don't even care what you do with the idiots on that boat, you can feed 'em to the bloody sharks for all of me, but stop them shooting at us!"

"Captain!" called Anamaria. "Why don't we just sink 'em?"

Abruptly Sparrow seemed to catch himself as a fox-toothed grin turned the ends of his moustache.  ""No, I think not.  I've got other plans for that boat."

Through the dispersing haze of cannon smoke Will glanced at the motley gathering of men peopling the Pearl's deck.  All of them resembled a cross between rag-pickers and, well, pirates, and he rather helplessly turned back to their captain.

"Ah … who do you want me to take?"

Two muskets banged and two more thuds thumped the ship's hull.  Sparrow leaned until his nose almost touched Will's.

"I … do not … care!"  Then he wheeled about and pointed commandingly.  "You lot, with Mister Turner!  Pistols and cutlasses!"

Will blinked to realize Anamaria was somehow included in that imperious directive.  But one look at her narrow gaze forbade protest.  Thus he closed his mouth before anything stupid could come out of it.

Moments later Will slipped over the far side of the ship with the lady pirate, Irish John, Matty Whitlock, and hulking Original John at his heels, followed by two others.  The unlikely assault of muskets against a twenty-gun pirate ship - the _Pearl however abandoning the use of her big guns - continued as they rowed ashore and disappeared into deeply-shadowed jungle growth._

At a loping run Will led his boarding party through the mangroves around the cove's curving shore, while the pop of musketry was answered by small arms aboard the Pearl.  Within moments they peered from the brush to see the sloop gliding slowly between them and the Black Pearl, a slim, pale shadow of wood and limp sail against darkening water.  The musket fire from her deck came more sporadically, now, and the boat drifted ever closer to shore with apparently no hand at the helm nor mind for her course.

Beside Will, Matty gleefully whispered, "Reckon they're thinkin' they don't much like this fix."

Muffled snickers came from behind and Anamaria hissed a sharp, "SHHHH!"

But Original John leaned his bulk forward to ask, "How we gettin' out there?"

A good question.  As his impromptu crew waited for his reply, Will studied the surge and retreat of waves on the beach just beyond their concealment, and the yards of darkly gleaming water between them and their goal.  Somehow swimming out to the boat did not seem very … piratical.

Then a grating, grinding thud answered all their questions, as the sloop slid ponderously to a stop some twenty yards from shore.  Canvas fluttered as she settled at an odd tilt, and there she moved no more.

With a shrug, Will said, "I think we just walk."

The men aboard the sloop were far too busy jabbering things like, "_mon Dieu!_" and "_sacré bleu!_" and "_imbécile!_" to notice half a dozen figures wading out in water that never got past their waists.  The muskets boomed one more jagged volley and -.

"Now!" cried Will.

Up and over the slanting rail the pirates swarmed, and the sloop's crewmen wheeled to face them with shouts of dismay.  

"_Qu'est-ce que c'est?" cried one._

Flints snapped sharply, but no one had had time to reload their muskets and Will stepped forward with a cocked pistol aimed.

"Avast!" he shouted, and clenched his teeth when he heard a snicker behind him.  "And I bloody well mean it."

Of course their foe did not comply.  A rapid flurry of thuds, grunts and bodies hitting the deck immediately followed, and a jolly little donnybrook it proved to be.  Matty pounced with the apparent intent of twisting one man into three half-hitches and a bowline.  Irish John squared off like a pugilist and thumped his opponent as if he were a wad of bread dough.  Will straightened another fellow onto his toes with two right jabs, whereupon Anamaria slugged the man over the side, and in general noses were bloodied, knuckles were barked, and voices cursed fiercely in two or three languages.

The ruckus ceased, however, when Original John seized two of the foe by their shirt fronts and hoisted both right off their feet, one man dangling in each hand.

"HE SAID 'AVAST'!" the big pirate bellowed, as their legs flailed a good two feet off the deck.  "That's nautical for 'stop!'"

The last empty muskets clattered to the deck, whereupon Matty stepped to the rail on the high side.  There he cupped his hands to shout across, "Ahoy the _Pearl_!  All secure!"

Anamaria came to stand beside Will as they surveyed the crew of their prize.  They were not, all said, much to look at.  In the twilight the men were ragged, dirty and unkempt, even by pirate standards, and only one of them wore a pair of shoes.

Taking him to be the captain, Will put on his strictest face and demanded, "What possessed you to fire on a ship five times your size - with muskets?"

The sloop's captain scratched his stubbled jaw as he fumbled with a heavily accented reply.  "_Je suis désolé, m'sieu_ … We think you are navy?"

Across the cove the _Black Pearl seemed to crouch in the shadows like some great, black predator, with nary a scrap of Royal Navy flag - any nation's navy - to be seen._

Will leaned closer, eyes narrowed.  "Does that look like a navy ship?"

The sloop's captain swallowed hard.  "Ehh … _non, m'sieu."_

"No.  Count your blessings that it doesn't go worse for you."  A curious strangling sound distracted Will's attention briefly.  "Oh, John, you can put those two down, now."

Original John relaxed his hands, and twin thuds jarred the deck and two sets of lungs sucked gratefully for air.  The master of the sloop seemed to shrink into himself.

"Eh … _s'il vous plait, capitaine, et après?  What happens now?"_

"You'll have to wait and find out."

The captain wilted under Will's stern stare - an unexpectedly pleasant effect, since he seldom intimidated anyone - but a problematical thought had come to mind.

Turning, he bent to whisper, "What _is_ going to happen to them, anyhow?"

Anamaria shrugged as she inspected the priming on her pistol.  "That's for Jack to decide."

***

TBC …

_Translations_:

"_Qu'est-ce que c'est?" - (What is this?)_

"_Je suis désolé, m'sieu."  - (I am sorry, sir.)_

"_S'il vous plait, capitaine, et après?"  - (If you please, captain, what now?)  _

_A/N:  This is becoming a habit, LOL, but I have such wonderful reviewers I feel compelled to respond!  As this note may become a tad lengthy, however, do feel free to ignore._

_1) To the kind soul who commented what a fast writer I am - nope.  LOL, but I wish!  I actually began posting this story with several chapters already written and I continue to write well ahead of where I'm posting.  The primary reasons for all that are, one, I've never posted a work-in-progress before, which leads to two; I like having that sort of safety-net.  Thus when I do get stuck, I still have chapters in reserve to keep posting while I'm wrestling my muses.  Such as right now.  *Glares at muses who sit sniggering at me*  But also I am compulsive about revising, so I want the space to go back and fix stuff as the chapters ahead keep evolving._

_2) 100 Reviews!  Holy cow! WHOO!  Great Scott, I've never had 100 reviews on a story in my life!  WHOOO! Pardon me while I dance a happy-author hornpipe!  THANK YOU THANK YOU everyone!_

_3) Ceremonial Blood ~ ironically enough, I was just thinking of you the other day!  (I was thinking I owe you an email.  *gulp*) No, I've not forgotten the LOTR plot bunny you handed me, but as you see, my confounded muses got their own ideas!  Please forgive me for disappointing you thus far … I honestly do hope to come back to that idea as it is still very enticing! _ :-)__

_4) Lastly, for those who want a sea-faring drama with brains and heart, go see Russell Crowe, Paul Bettany, Billy Boyd et al in  "Master and Commander: Far Side of the World."  It is not remotely PoTC.  It is firstly a human drama, or as someone told me, an action-drama.  But it is an unblinking, richly-detailed and well-told tale of life and revenge on the high seas._


	15. Chapter 15 Shaping Chances

**PIRATES OF THE **CARIBBEAN******: THE AFRICAN STAR**

**By ErinRua**

CHAPTER 15

"We put them ashore, of course!" was Jack Sparrow's response, and his grin gleamed in the light of two lanterns now set on the sloop's tilting deck.

He pressed a hand to his breast and struck a pose as he gave his pronouncement with utmost, albeit slightly-slurred, magnanimity.  "After all, the sort of stupidity required to fire muskets on a pirate ship armed with twenty cannon has to be its own reward.  Far be it from me to deprive these fine fellows of enjoyin' every moment of it."

The sloop's crew looked blank.  One timidly raised a hand.

"Eh …_ Je comprends pas, m'sieu."_

Jack's scowling translation was to the point.  "You'll live."

"_Oh, merci!"  For a moment it seemed the man and all his mates might burst into tears.  "_Merci beaucoup, capitaine_!"_

Sighing, Sparrow draped a wrist over the hilt of his sheathed cutlass and scanned his prisoners darkly.  One was dripping, nine were huddling, and all were cowering.

"What _are you people, anyhow?  For the sake of all that's just in the world, I hope you're not pirates."_

"_Comment ça s'appelle?  We are __contrebandiers, smugglers, __capitaine," offered another captive._

"Ah."  Lantern light winked from the wee baubles swinging in Sparrow's hair, as he pinned the man with a keen stare.  "Smugglers of what?  Rum?"

The man lifted one shoulder in a bony shrug.  "_Ça__ dépend de la chance.  But luck has no been kind."_

Jack gave a snort.  "Meanin' no one but yourselves has run aground lately, so scavengin' 'as been thin.  Very well."

Facing the captives as a group, he announced, "We will leave you with your miserable lives, which is more than many would grant you.  But you will of course donate this lovely boat, and everything on her, to us.  Furthermore, you will not breathe a single word of our presence to anyone, or …."  Abruptly Sparrow pivoted into a long stride and halted not a hand-span from the sloop's cringing captain.

There he smiled and said gently, "Or I'll come back and find every man-jack of you, and put each of you on a spit over a slow flame.  Savvy?"

Black eyes reflected glints of fire that might have come from without or within, and the sloop's now-former master nodded hastily.  "_Oui, m'sieu."_

"Then GET OFF MY BOAT!"

At Sparrow's shout one of the captives spun and leaped over the side - and in a twinkling the cove resounded with nine more splashes.  Phosphorescence swirled in the shallow water as the smugglers floundered towards shore and the dark jungle waiting beyond. 

Jack squared his shoulders and gave a contented sigh.  "Oh, that was splendid fun!"

Beside him Will looked at the slanting deck and up at the limp sails that lifted into shadow over their heads.  Farther above the first stars winked in a deepening sky.

"So now we have a boat," he said.  "What do we do with it?"

"We -."  Jack turned with the sort of glittering grin that seldom bode well for anyone.  "Are going to sail her, mate.  Or more rightly -" he tapped a finger in the air between them "- you are."

Shock immediately erased at least ten years from Will's face, and he stared like the ten year old boy he suddenly seemed to be.  "I -."

"Just took your first prize."  Jack beamed a bright smile and lightly patted his young comrade's chest.  "Savor the moment, mate.  It only comes once."

"But I don't -."  In sudden alarm Will glanced around as the other pirates began inspecting the sloop.  "You sent me here to stop them shooting at us.  You said nothing about stealing their boat!"

"Will …" Sparrow's smile collapsed into a look of weary patience, and he draped an arm over the other's shoulder, turning him aft.  "They're smugglers.  Look around you.  This is a sweet little craft and that lot could never afford the likes of her in their entire weaselly lives.  They stole her from someone else - we're simply returnin' the favor."

Panic and exasperation warred within as Will met Jack's hopeful expression with the darkest scowl he muster.  "Then let someone else have her.  I'm not a pirate, Jack, and any one of your crew would be a better captain than me."

"You think so?"  Jack abruptly dropped his arm and his face and voice smoothed to a rare solemnity.  "Will, many men are seamen, but not all are sailors.  Most of my lads couldn't navigate their way out of a corked jug, and a chart might as well be written in Greek for all the good it would do them.  And most of them couldn't lead another man to anything but 'is next drink."

"I still don't see what that has to do with me.  I've never sailed anything but a little fishing boat."

"Oh, really?"  Blink, Sparrow's expression shifted to acute and amused interest.  "Practicing since I saw you last, then.  Now why would that be, ay?"

Will scowled.  "I'm not a sailor, Jack."

"That's why you'll 'ave a crew."

"What about Gibbs?"

"He wasn't on your boardin' party."

"What about Anamaria?"

"You led them."

"So what?"  Desperation tightened Will's voice.  "I'll give her the boat, then.  If it's mine, I'll do as I like with it."

"Ah, but you can't."  The ends of Sparrow's moustache curled in a crafty smile.  "You sighed the articles, me boy, and I am your captain.  Therefore, you will do as I say and take command of this boat.  Unless of course you 'ave abandoned your honor."

That shot struck right at the waterline, for Will could never go back on his given word and Jack knew it.  A vague wobbling in the young blacksmith's legs could not be entirely blamed on the tide that tugged at the stranded hull beneath them.

"Jack, I can't -."

"Yes, you can."  Sparrow bent towards him, dark gaze gleaming eagerly.  "Besides, this is an omen."

"An omen."

"Aye.  Did you not see the name on 'er?"

"No."

"Will, you 'ave captured a handsome four-gun sloop named -."  Jack paused for a grin and dramatic affect - "the '_Lady Elizabeth_.'"  Then he stepped back as if that somehow settled everything in one stroke, and called sharply, "Anamaria?"

"Aye, Jack?"  The dark woman appeared from the shadows.

"Anamaria, love, would you be so kind as to assist Mister Turner in his new command?"  The smile Sparrow wore would have shamed a cat with an entire mouthful of canary feathers.  "He'll 'ave need of a good first mate."

***

The sky was full of stars and there was a ring around the half-moon by the time the tide rose enough to float the _Lady Elizabeth free of her sandy entrapment.  An inspection found no damage to the hull from grounding on the sandbar, and the holed topsail was replaced with a spare from her sail locker.  In all, she was as sea-worthy as anyone could wish.  That established, Jack sent men in one of the __Pearl__'s launches to pull her bow around and tow the __Lady Elizabeth to open water._

They found water and some food already aboard, but as a precaution Jack sent over extra munitions, including four-pound shot for the sloop's four deck guns.  At last she stood ready, drifting next to the pirate ship like a dove beside a hawk.  On her deck two captains, one dark and fierce and the other young and terrified, held a last conference.

"Remember," said Sparrow, his goateed face schooled to sternness.  "You're out there to look only.  That means no darin' rescues, no desperate heroics, and no exchangin' broadsides with a ship carryin' enough guns to blast you into kindling.  Savvy?"

"Aye," Will replied with a quick, anxious nod.

"Then you return to me with your report, nice and quiet and sneaky."  Jack bent close and aimed a finger under the young man's nose.  "Think like a pirate, Will."

"I shall."

Sparrow paused a moment, studying his nervous protégé by the light of a swaying lantern.  "Your father was a resourceful and clever man.  I expect no less of his son."

"I won't let you down, Jack."

"I know you won't."  A sudden grin lit Jack's face and eyes.  "After all, you 'ave pirate in your blood!"

With that Sparrow swung a leg over the rail.  "Ta!"

And he was gone.  The _Lady Elizabeth_ rocked gently as the clunk of oarlocks sounded over the side.  Now, it was just Will Turner, a stolen sloop, ten scruffy pirates … and Elizabeth waiting somewhere across the moonlit channel.

"Well, captain?  What are your orders?"

Will heard the mocking smile in that feminine voice even before he turned to face its owner.  "Please, Anamaria, don't call me that."

A delicate brow lifted as she shrugged.  "You are captain, whether you like it or not."

Sighing, Will looked at the expectant faces around him.  Among them stood gangly Matty Whitlock, tousle-headed Irish John, and of course the hulking form of Original John, who looked back at him with a remarkably placid expression.  His crew.  A crew of pirates.  Resignedly Will turned his attention out across the dark water.

"Get us out of here," he said.

White sails climbed up the single mast, glowing like great wings beneath the moon and stars.  Slowly the _Lady Elizabeth took the wind, gliding out of the cove and turning her bow across the moon-washed channel.  The boom of her mainsail reached its wooden arm out over the water and she moved faster and then faster, until at last she heeled gently to the press of the wind and her bow lifted eagerly into the swells.  On the quarterdeck Anamaria held the tiller until their course steadied and the silhouette of the Isle of Gonave slid behind them._

Then she called, "Will, come here!"

With a questioning look the young blacksmith stepped to her side and she nodded towards the tiller in her hands.  "Take the helm, captain.  It's time to meet your boat."

His heart sprang up and began furiously beating on his tonsils as he closed his hands about the length of polished wood.  Instantly it seemed that a live thing tugged and pushed somewhere below.  As water pressed at the unseen rudder he felt the sloop shudder, and somewhere overhead canvas rippled.

"Steady," Anamaria cautioned.

Will lent more strength to counter the tiller's pull and felt balance returning, the weight of wind and sail smoothing their course once more.  Yet he feared his next mistake, feared the nameless disasters that seemed to leer just over his shoulder, and every muscle he owned drew fiddle-string tight until he hardly dared breathe.  Long moments passed as black water whispered along their hull and the moon hung atop their mast in a silver halo.

At last, however, a smile crept onto his face.  The _Lady Elizabeth was aptly named.  He could feel the sea and the wind like fine shivers beneath his feet, and keeping the balance of tiller and sail was becoming a subtle dance, with the sloop answering to his hand like a lady in silk gloves._

Anamaria saw his smile and answered with one of her own.  "You'll be all right, Will Turner," she said.  "Maybe Jack was right.  Maybe the _Lady Elizabeth_ is a sign."

She stepped past him and glanced over her shoulder, white teeth flashing.  "Maybe Erzulie sent her."

In the darkness the _Lady Elizabeth was a ghost ship, as she sailed on towards St. Marc and Hispaniola's brooding shore._

***

Wood grated painfully and Elizabeth sat up with a gasp.  No one slept soundly in this dank, fetid hole and as the door to their cell swung open, all the captives blinked at the unexpected lantern light in anxious wakefulness.

"On your feet, ladies," growled First Mate Fry, the light casting his square face in macabre shadows.  "Cap'n wants a word with ye."

Beside Elizabeth Bess rose silently, and Sarah clung to Elizabeth's hand as they followed suit.  The hour was still dark, before dawn, and none could imagine the cause for such an early summons.

"Wh-what does he want?" Sarah quavered.

Fry's answer was a leering grin.  "Now that's what you're going to find out, ain't it?"

There was no toilet to accomplish in this place with neither bath nor brush, and so the women simply stood up.  By some unspoken agreement Elizabeth went first, or perhaps it was that no one else wanted to.  The slave ship had dropped anchor shortly after sundown, and occasionally the salty tang of the shore filtered through the stench that permeated the _Royal Venture_.  However, their location was a mystery and now frightened hearts beat fast, fearing that at last they had reached some dire destination.

Four of the slave ship's crewmen fell in as unwelcome escorts, and as the captives passed by dim lanterns on deck they could see each other, and see themselves.  In just a few days' time they had sunk to the look of mad women, barefoot, tousled, wrinkled and stained.  Elizabeth brushed at the brocade of her skirt and felt the roughness of frayed material that could never be salvaged.  Yet she realized that the simple linen and wool the other ladies wore were no less a loss.  For with cleanliness fled their dignity and the ability to command respect in either themselves or anyone else.

Thus it was with effort that Elizabeth squared her shoulders as they faced the door of the captain's cabin.  Fry rapped sharply before speaking.

"They're here, cap'n."

From within replied the same counterfeit, grating voice as before.  "Bring them."

Briefly Elizabeth wondered why on earth Biltmore's men did not lose themselves in hysterical laughter over such a charade, but then the door was open and that thought died.  The captain's cabin before her was a dim grotto illuminated only by a few flickering candles, whose light gleamed dully on polished wood furnishings - and the featureless crimson silk of the mask covering its master's face.

"Come, my dear," he rasped, in a falsely gentle tone that raised the hackles on her neck.  "You are holding up your little friends from our audience.  We don't want any obstructions, now do we?"

Silently they filed in and stood, keenly aware of First Mate Fry looming in the doorway behind them and the four crewmen lurking in the passage just beyond.  At a sideboard Biltmore's black servant pottered about a tray of several covered dishes, from which the savory aromas of an early breakfast rose.  Elizabeth realized she was not the only one to look about the cabin in unexpected yearning.  She had never realized until now how precious simple things like real food, pewter candlesticks or an upholstered chair could seem.  One of the girls crept a bare foot forward to test the plush of a thick rug.

If their captor noticed he gave no indication, but Elizabeth fancied she saw cold humor glinting through the holes in his mask.  He turned from his place at the dark windows with his hands clasped behind his back, and surveyed them from behind that hideously blank silk facade.

In that grating voice he said, "Within two days we will make Port Paix.  There we will meet some very important people.  I need you to look presentable and respectable and to that end, I have arranged baths and clothing for you all."

The ragged group before him shifted and whispered briefly, nervously, and Elizabeth found her mouth suddenly dry.  Somehow the idea of bathing failed to sound remotely inviting while on board this dreadful ship, and the unspoken question in all the women's wary eyes was where and how.

"There will be no watch above-decks," their captor's raspy tones went on, "and I have arranged for a canvas partition to be set up on the foredeck for privacy.  Fresh water has been brought aboard, although I'm afraid you'll have to bathe cold, and you will kindly assist each other where needed.  You will bathe again tomorrow night as well.  I expect you to be fresh as daisies.  That is all."

And just like that they were dismissed.  Fury smoldered in Elizabeth's belly like too much pepper sauce and she just barely bit back a fiery response.  Yet Biltmore's promise lingered in her mind like an odious caress: _'They will weep and suffer the pain that should rightfully be yours.'  Nor did she forget the crewman flogged for his carelessness._

Thus as Fry stepped into the room in silent but pointed command, she dared only shoot him a scathing glance before sweeping out the door.  Orders to bathe, indeed - as if they were children, or prize horses to be tidied up for visitors.  But as she emerged on deck a cool breeze swept over her along with a colder realization; they truly _were_ being handled like livestock, for in Biltmore's eyes that is what they were, just like the cargo of unfortunate Africans before them.

Eight women there were who brushed aside the promised canvas screen and gazed with trepidation upon a copper tub set on the foredeck.  Beside the tub stood two large barrels of water, two wooden buckets, two bars of lye soap and several coarse towels.  There was no lantern nor any light but the uncaring stars.  None trusted Biltmore's word that no watch would be above, but scrutiny of the masts and the sails furled high against the pre-dawn showed that indeed the crows-nests were empty.

"Do we just …" Sarah's tremulous voice broke the silence, her arms wrapped around her ample waist.  "What do we do?"

A closer look revealed a heap of roughly-folded clothing to one side of the canvas enclosure, the topmost of which Bess bent and picked up.  She held a simple dress to herself, then eyed her comrades appraisingly and handed it to a more buxom girl.

With a sigh Elizabeth plucked another garment from the pile and said, "I think we can take turns in the tub, and help pour water for each other while the others keep watch.  And we can take turns washing our hair in the extra bucket."

But Sarah simply stood shivering in place and thin moonlight glinted on unshed tears.  Nor could Elizabeth blame her, for how in heaven's name did one discard the last shred of dignity beneath the eyes of seven witnesses?

"But why now?" Sarah whimpered.  "Why are we out here in the dark?"

"What do you think?" one of the other girls spat.  "There's a town over there on the shore, and he doesn't want anyone to see us."

The truth of that drove the bleakness of their circumstances home even more strongly, if that were possible.  One of the women then moved forward and seized a wad of dress material with an impatient hand.

"Might as well go first," she said.  "I'm about to crawl out of my skin, I'm that famished for clean clothes."

That broke the ice somewhat and gradually the miserable little company found a system of scooping bucketfuls of water for whomever crouched in the tub and either wetting them down or rinsing them off.  Meanwhile the remaining bucket could be used to scour hair grown sticky and matted, the women taking turns scrubbing each other's hair vigorously, and soon the scuppers ran with soapy water.

Despite the indignity of the situation, cleanliness no matter how imperfect was a blessing beyond compare.  Clad at last in simple cotton and linen, Elizabeth regretfully wadded up the pretty summer dress she had arrived in.  It had been a favorite of hers, both in color and comfort, but if ever she had looked like a governor's daughter, now she appeared no different from the daughters of fishermen and laborers around her.

She flinched to a tap on her shoulder and turned to see Bess offering the extra bucket, gleaming full of fresh water.  Mustering a wan smile, she said, "Thank you, Bess."

The dark girl's lips twitched in what might have passed for a smile and she set the bucket at Elizabeth's feet.  Collecting her skirts, Elizabeth knelt on the hard deck and gathered her tangled hair before plunging her head gratefully into the water.  When she reached for the soap, again a black hand was there, and Elizabeth paused to study the other's handsome, shadowed face.

"I think you are a good woman, Bess," she said.

Once more the ghost of a smile flickered and Bess dipped a hand into the bucket and splashed water onto the soap.  A quick gesture conveyed that she would help soap Elizabeth's hair and Elizabeth leaned forward obligingly.  She could have wept for the simple comfort of a friendly human touch, as strong, brisk fingers scrubbed the grime of misery away.

***

"I help my mama so."

The towel Elizabeth vigorously applied to her hair obscured that low voice and it took a moment for her to realize Bess had spoken.  Startled, she stared at the colored woman now sitting on the deck beside her.

"Mama got sick," Bess explained, and Elizabeth found herself drawn to the deep yet gentle tones of her voice.  "I help her wash."

Uncertain how to reply, Elizabeth fumbled, "That … was very good of you."

For the first time white teeth glimmered in a bashful smile.  "Mama was good to me.  She care for people.  Like you try to care for people."

Wet locks slid forward about Elizabeth's face as she bowed her head, struggling with the sudden burning lump in her throat.  "I didn't do very well at that, Bess.  Róisín is - is gone, because -."

"Because dat man kill her."  Bess' smooth alto voice softened to a darker note.  "Don' you forget, miss.  He do de work of evil.  You do de work of good."

"No."  Elizabeth shook her head, hands clenched in the damp wad of her towel.  "I was simply afraid."

"So are all of us."  Brown fingers reached to lay warmly over pale ones, and Elizabeth looked up as that soft, rich voice spoke on.  "You an' me, we find a way.  We watch an' be clever, more clever dan dese fools who keep us.  We find a way."

Brown eyes met brown for several heartbeats, and then Elizabeth placed her free hand over their clasped fingers.  No words were spoken because none were needed.

"Come," said Elizabeth, and rose to her feet.  "Let's keep watch for the others."

***

TBC …

_Translations:_

"_Je__ ne comprends, m'sieu."  - (I don't understand, sir.)_

"_Comment ça s'appelle?  - (What is it called?)_

"_Ça__ dépend de la chance."  - (It all depends on luck.)_

_A/N:  Only a couple things, this time.__  First, a hearty Thank you, mate! to Eledhwen for proof-reading and correcting my French. Rogueangel, thank you for your kind comments and notation on Dante.  Perhaps I should go back and fix it to the proper circle of hell: we don't actually know what Jack knows, after all …   ;-)  Again, thank you so much to everyone for reading and encouragement._


	16. Chapter 16 A Matter of Fishes

**PIRATES OF THE **CARIBBEAN******: THE AFRICAN STAR**

**By ErinRua**

CHAPTER 16

The half moon slid down the western sky and dawn was but a hint of grey to the east, as the _Lady Elizabeth glided into the waters of St. Marc.  Only a few pinpoints of light marked the sleeping village, and in the harbor various small vessels and fishing boats swayed drowsily at their moorings.  Apart from them stood a dark, brooding ship whose odor drifted on the breeze like the green breath of a sewer._

The sloop began to lose speed as she ghosted towards the dark shoreline, and at her tiller Will Turner's eyes narrowed.  As they drew nearer he noticed that on board the _Royal Venture_ there were several dim lanterns glowing but no sign of movement.

"Matty, is this not a strange hour to have more than a watch light burning?"

The redheaded pirate came to stand beside Will and peered into the night.  "Reckon it is, unless they're fixin' to get under way."

"But there's no one on deck, no one in the rigging."

"Aye, so it is."

Will kept the tiller steady as Matty moved to the rail and leaned to stare across the silver-dark water more keenly.  A long moment passed and Will adjusted minutely to a shift of wind, pleased that it allowed them to alter their tack to an angle more convergent on the _Royal Venture.  They were approaching from her stern, but at a shallow angle that gave them a view of the whole starboard side._

"Not too close," Anamaria warned.

"Don't worry," Will replied, and a boyish smile played about his lips.  "We're just harmless smugglers returning after a long voyage."

"You hope."

"Looky there," Matty said, and pointed a bony arm towards their quarry.  "Wot's that on 'er foredeck?"

Peering with nothing but starlight and a fading half moon for illumination, Will and his first mate nonetheless made out a pale irregular shape that filled the slave ship's fore.  On examination it appeared to be some sort of canvas pavilion or shelter.

"I have no idea," Will replied, as the _Lady Elizabeth_ continued to gently breast the waves.

Anamaria squinted and said, "Maybe it's covering some sort of cargo they just took on?"

"Maybe," said Matty.  "But it's not layin' over things; it's hangin' _around somethin', same as curtains, like."_

Abruptly Will leaned into the tiller.  "We're going closer."

Anamaria spun with a look of alarm.  "Will, we don't -."

"Trust me, Anamaria.  I'm just thinking like a pirate."

"Thinkin' like a fool," she grumbled, but then barked the orders that adjusted the sails.

Closer they drifted, the shallow chop of the harbor lifting and dropping the sloop in shorter rolls than out in the main channel.  There! - movement stirred on the deck of the _Royal Venture, a man walking slowly amidships.  Yet he seemed to have no particular purpose, and it dawned on Will that the man's behavior seemed less that of a seaman, and more that of a sentry._

"Anamaria!" he hissed.  "Get the men below-decks!  Nobody on deck but you, me and Matty."

She gave him a startled glance, but to her credit she sprang instantly to comply.  In moments they might have been nothing but a sleepy boat wandering in from a village up the coast, with no more crew than was absolutely required.  The question would be if those aboard the _Royal Venture_ bought the ruse.

"They're gonna see us," Anamaria said, her gaze fixed on the slave ship's black silhouette, drawing ever nearer.

"Let them.  In fact -."  Will plucked the floppy hat from her head and mashed it atop his own.  Grinning he said, "Now I'm disguised."

"Now you're mad," she said with a scowl.

"I've had a good teacher."

She rolled her eyes, visible even in the dark, but said nothing.  Silent but for the gurgling rush of water and random rattles of rigging they ghosted on.  Closer the _Royal Venture grew, her blunt stern looming, her masts towering in a forest of spars and her sails furled._

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," breathed Matty.  "She 'as a stink that would choke a maggot."

Dark water gurgled as their pace slowed.  The guard or sentry on the slave ship's deck was nowhere to be seen.  They saw no movement forward in the _Royal Venture_'s bows where the odd canvas structure stood.  And then -.

Water slurped from her scuppers right where the queer pavilion stood.

"Bloody Nora!" Matty hissed.  "There's somebody in there!"

Without a lantern in the fore there was no seeing beyond or through the heavy sailcloth, but it seemed certain there was someone or something within it, which had for whatever reason sluiced that water over the side.  Beneath the brim of Anamaria's hat Will's eyes never left the _Royal Venture as they slid past its malodorous decks.  His heart wrenched to think of his Elizabeth somewhere on board that stinking ship._

"AHOY!  You on the sloop!"

The yell shocked across the quiet water and the sloop's three visible crewmen looked up.  There above the sentry had reappeared, now hunched over the rail in belligerent posture.

"Stand away from us or we will fire on you!"

Three more figures appeared beside the sentry, the black fingers of loaded muskets jutting against the stars.  The musket barrels dipped downward to take aim on the _Lady Elizabeth_'s slowly-passing deck below.

"We're dead," Matty mumbled.

This close to the greater ship's hull there was no maneuvering, and any turn for escape would simply expose Will at the helm to their musket fire.  He had never felt so naked in his life.

"Hey!"  Anamaria's sharp cry cracked back at them.  "You on the stinky boat!  You wanna buy _poissons?  You wanna buy fish?"_

"Fish!"  The sentry's befuddlement was audible.

"We got fish," Anamaria shouted back.  "Fresh off the banks.  You wanna buy _poissons?  We sell cheap!"_

"Of all bleedin' - NO, we don't want your ruddy fish!  Get away from us, you damn fool idiotic islanders!"

"_Allez__ à l'enfer!" the lady pirate retorted._

Will stared at her in surprise.  "You speak French?"

The dark look she gave him answered before she spoke.  "Not any polite French."

The muskets of the ship's guards continued to follow the sloop's passage, but evidently that exchange had convinced them that the much-smaller boat was no threat.  Will eased the tiller so that the _Lady Elizabeth began to bear away - but on an angled course that would still pass them within hailing distance of the slave ship's strangely-shrouded foredeck.  Not that he had any intentions of tempting fate more than they had already, but if in parting they could discern some useful intelligence, he would not pass up the chance._

The sloop caught more wind as she angled away from the _Royal Venture_'s looming sides, sliding past with increasing speed.  Now the slave ship's bowsprit jutted like an angry finger, pointing away from her moorage in a hard, uncompromising line.

And Will saw her.  A flicker of movement just outside the canvas enclosure now coming abeam resolved itself into a slender figure.  Her hair tumbled loose to her shoulders and she wore a strangely simple skirt that could not be her own.  But he had held the vision of her face and the sweet column of her neck, even the set of her elegant shoulders foremost in his heart and mind every day since they first met.

"Elizabeth …" he breathed, and the boat trembled under his suddenly shaky hand.

"Steady on, Will," Anamaria said.

Now Elizabeth saw the sloop; she was looking towards the boat and a woman even darker than Anamaria appeared beside her.  Will could not breathe and his heart was thundering in his ears.  Elizabeth could see them, but she did not know them!  There were only seconds left, precious seconds that were evaporating like smoke, as slave ship and smuggler's boat slid apart and dark water widened between them.

"_Au revoir!" Will suddenly shouted and doffed his borrowed hat with a very Jack-like flourish.  "The __Lady Elizabeth will take her business elsewhere!"_

He was aware that Anamaria and Matty were both staring at him as if he had just sprouted a second head.  But Elizabeth knew him, she knew his voice.  Now he prayed with all his strength that hearing her own name applied to a boat had won her attention, and that despite the pre-dawn gloom she would realize she was no longer alone.

When he looked again, Elizabeth and her companion had disappeared.  Resolutely Will turned his attention back to the business of sailing to safer waters.

"It must be somethin' in the air," Anamaria finally said.  "Or maybe too much sun."

"Beg pardon?"

"That makes you and Jack crazy."

"Say, who's mad here?"  Will lowered his head to peer at her.  "'You want to buy _poisson_?'"

Giving an unladylike snort in lieu of a reply, Anamaria turned and strode forward, leaving Will alone at the tiller as the _Royal Venture_ shrank astern.

***

On board the slave ship the eight women captives silently filed back to their cell, beneath the unfeeling gaze of First Mate Fry and his men.  None spoke or met their captors' eyes, yet for Elizabeth it was not in submission, but for fear they would see the great joy leaping within her heart.  Will was here!  And that had been Jack's female pirate friend, Anamaria, on the boat with him!  How he came to be here or who owned that boat - for that matter how he had found Anamaria - were questions she could not begin to answer.

But as the door of their cell slammed them into fetid darkness once more, for the first time in three days Elizabeth knew real hope.  Bess settled beside her and Elizabeth paused, debating how much to say.

Then she leaned close and whispered, "That fishing boat - those were friends of mine."

Bess made no reply but her surprise was evident in the sudden stiffening of her posture.  Elizabeth squeezed her arm in reassurance.

"I don't know what will happen," she whispered, "or when.  But we must be ready."

"These friends …" Bess' low-toned whisper tickled her ear.  "Will they fight?"

"Oh, yes."  A smile blossomed on Elizabeth's face and despite the foul-smelling gloom she reveled in the glorious feeling a smile brought.  "They're pirates."

***

 The morning sun rose in flames to wreath itself in sooty haze, and beyond the horizon grey towers of clouds began to gather and grow.  The _Black Pearl left her anchorage and took up station in open water off the Isle of Gonave, and the wind drove sharp-edged and fitful when at last Jack Sparrow spied the sails of the __Lady Elizabeth.  Or more rightly his lookout did, the hail from aloft bringing Jack to the rail with his spy glass in hand._

Sure enough, there she was, flying before a wind that scuffed white tops on steel-blue waves.  Moments later Gibbs appeared at Jack's side, squinting into the wind as the distant boat came at an angle to intercept.

"About time," the older man said.

"Aye," Jack replied, spyglass to his eye.  "But I'd wager William makes a good report."

For some time they simply watched as the sail grew to a boat and the boat became recognizably a sloop.  After a while, however, it became apparent the sloop's skipper had a bit more in mind than simply rejoining his captain.

"What's he doing?" asked Gibbs.

A pause, while Jack lowered the glass and studied their approach.  "I'd say he's sailing."

Now the sloop had changed tack, bearing away from the _Pearl in a long reach across the wind.  Perhaps ten minutes later she turned back, mainsail, topsail and jib gleaming taut and white as she took the wind on her other quarter.  The __Pearl__ forged on as her smaller companion raced to catch up, and ere long a race it seemed.  Again the __Lady Elizabeth altered her angle of approach, heeling to the lee side so that blue water rushed beneath her rail._

Soon they could see the people aboard, like toy figures leaning from the windward rail as the sloop bounded across the waves, white froth bursting and spilling past her bow.  A few moments more and they could spy individuals, Original John's muscular form dwarfing Matty Whitlock and Irish John, their hair whipping in the wind of their passage, and white grins beaming on the sunburned faces of the others.  Will was invisible behind the mainsail, but Jack realized it was his hand at the tiller.

"He's comin' right at us!" Gibbs exclaimed.

"Aye," Jack said, a slow grin spreading across his dark face.  "That he is."

Like a sleek white falcon stooping to the hunt, the _Lady Elizabeth_ swept towards them.  Then a thin shout was heard and men scrambled across the sloop's decks, as her boom swung the great mainsail over.  For an instant it seemed she could not recover her footing fast enough and would splinter her bowsprit against the _Black Pearl_'s foredeck.  But the sloop was after all a lady in form as well as name, and she came about as prettily as a sailor could ever wish.  As her bow swung away and her stern came into view, there Will Turner's lanky form stood.  His legs were braced wide and one hand was on the tiller while the other he raised in a jaunty salute, and Anamaria stood grinning beside him.

"Glory be," breathed Gibbs, and only then realized he was gripping the rail with white knuckles.

And of all absurd things, they heard singing, Irish John's soaring baritone leading the rollicking chorus.

_When up the shrouds the sailor goes   
And ventures on the yard,   
The landsman who no better knows   
Believes his lot is hard.   
Bold Jack with smiles each danger meets,   
Weighs anchor, heaves the log,   
Trims all the sails, belays his sheets   
And drinks his can of grog! _*__

Beside Gibbs, Jack Sparrow smiled in absolute contentment.

***

The weather was turning fast by the time Will had completed his report to Jack Sparrow.  Grey billows rose to swallow the late morning sun and the sea darkened as Hispaniola's horizon was sheered off by a layer of brooding clouds.  In the opulent captain's cabin of the _Black Pearl_, pirate chief and blacksmith sat amidst the creaks of a contented ship.

"So it's your sense that Biltmore will continue to Port Paix as he said in Port Royal?"  Sparrow steepled his fingers before his face, elbows on the arms of his chair as he studied the young man seated across from him.

"Aye," Will replied.  "They were just preparing to get underway when we left.  Whatever they took on at St. Marc's was small stuff and they let nothing off.  I think you were right, they are bound for the market with the most silver to spend."

"Then they must not make Port Paix."  Sparrow brought his joined fingers closer and thoughtfully tapped his lips.  "The weather is going to get a bit rough, no gettin' around that.  But these summer storms usually pass within hours.  Our job then will be to get the _Royal Venture in sight and keep her there -."_

"Until the opportune moment," Will said and his dark gaze shone with fierce eagerness.

"Precisely.  We want plenty of open water, and …."  Beneath Jack's moustache his teeth glinted in a predatory smile.  "No witnesses."

Will gave a thin smile in return, but in the next breath shadow settled upon his face.  Softly he said, "I saw her, Jack."

"Did you, now?"

The young man watched his fist close into a hard knot on the table.  "Elizabeth was on deck.  She saw us."  He raised his eyes to Jack's and in them flickered a hard edge of defiance.  "I made sure she saw us."

Sparrow stroked one side of his moustache as he studied Will's stiff features.  "Rest assured, boy, the _Royal Venture_ will be ours and everything she carries."

Will rose from his seat and looked down at the pirate captain.  "I'm holding you to that."

Then he left, the door thumping gently closed in his wake.  Behind him Sparrow relaxed in his chair, his gaze going unfocused, turning inward.

"The African Star …." he murmured.

His eyes gleamed in thought, as if already reflecting the ambient light of a jewel such as no pirate had ever beheld, a gem that was the envy of kings.  A gem that would soon rest in Jack Sparrow's own very clever hand.

***

They found the _Royal Venture at nearly the same time as the weather found them.  White sails bloomed against the shadow of Hispaniola's shore, but the lookout who shouted the sighting clung tightly to the _Pearl_'s bucking mainmast.  At the helm Jack Sparrow looked and gave a wintry smile._

"Is that him, cap'n?" Gibbs asked, his eyes narrowed into graying distance.

"Aye," Sparrow growled, and spun the wheel.

"Even once we catch up to him, we can't risk boardin' him if this storm comes on like it's promisin'."

"No, but we can make 'im nervous until the weather clears."

Grey water ran before them in deepening swells, pushed by the great dark breast of the storm that followed.  They had little time, and Sparrow shouted the orders that set their course on a long angle to intercept.  They would not have the luxury of standing back across a smooth and sunny sea, which meant they would have to get closer than they had planned before the storm shut visibility down even further. 

Sparrow looked for and spotted their sister vessel, the sloop out on a wider tack than the big square-rigger, but always staying within view.  He watched as the _Lady Elizabeth_ altered course, and knew Matty Whitlock up on her topmast had made the sighting as well.

"We'll 'ave 'er by nightfall," Sparrow said.  "Weather and luck willin'."

The hunters called their topmen down from the masts and forged onward, shouldering into the growing storm as with each mile they closed upon the _Royal Venture.  Closed upon their fortune and the rescue of Elizabeth Swann_

***

TBC …

* "_Can of Grog"_: Traditional seafaring song actually dated late 1700's, but I 'm borrowing it for the earlier heyday of pirates.  I'm sure they had songs like it.  _"__Jack"__ refers to Jack Tar, the common slang term for sailors._

_Midi__ file: http : // www . contemplator . com / sea / cangrog . html  -(Close spaces: FF.net eats URL coding.)_

_A/N: Once again a hearty Thank You! and a sweeping bow with the Big Plumed Hat ™ to everyone for your gracious encouragement.  To "wellduh" I must confess that I do not actually speak French, so I am counting on an English friend of mine who does, to check my translations.  It is entirely possible I may have neglected to run it all by her for perusal, so blame inconsistencies on me!_ :-)  _Seaspray_, thanks for the review, and don't worry, I don't always know what I'm saying, myself, LOL!  Jackfan2, I'm ever so glad you like the name of my sloop.  I didn't plan it that way, but then … there it was!  Scissorfied, thank you for leaving a note and I hope you will enjoy the tale. Thanks again to EVERYone!  Now hang on, More Stuff will happen._  :-)_


	17. Chapter 17 Into the Storm

**PIRATES OF THE **CARIBBEAN******: THE AFRICAN STAR**

**By ErinRua**

CHAPTER 17

The plans of men and the plans of God are seldom the same.  As the morning grew older the _Royal Venture_ became aware that she trailed shadows far astern, two sets of sails, one tall and strangely dark, the other small and swift.  Nor did they pass from view or change to a divergent course, as random vessels would tend to do.

The sun was gone and a rising wind keened through the rigging, when First Mate Thomas Fry climbed to the quarterdeck and stood beside his captain.  "What do you think, sir?"

Sir John Biltmore stood with legs wide apart and his hands clasped in the small of his back.  "They could simply be other ships bound for Tortuga or even Cuba."

"But you don't think so."

"No, I do not."  Biltmore's heavy features settled into an even bleaker look, for here there was no need for masks or disguises.  "They are a little too precise about keeping us in view."

"Pirates?"

"Perhaps so."

Fry frowned as he stared at the distant sails pacing them.  "How would they know we're carryin' anything but slaves?"

"Who is to say what friends pirates might have in a heathen town like Port Royal?  For all I know, the governor himself might keep privateers."  Then Biltmore pivoted sharply and said, "Alert your gun crews, but let us prepare to meet this blow."

Indeed, above them all sailed a greater foe, a vast grey cloud that dragged its belly heavily across the sea. Before long the storm burst upon them in a thunder of wind and driven rain.

Soon men scrambled across heaving decks and clung to lines that shuddered like struck violin strings, as they threw their meager mortal strength against the tempest.  High aloft canvas billowed in wet, angry heaves that could hurl a man screaming to his death, if any made the least mistake.  Hands were scraped raw as they clutched and fought to reef that canvas in.  Shortened sails lessened the wind's ability to wrench control away from the vessels' masters, but the ferocity of this tropical storm swiftly grew beyond all expectations.

***

Green water surged in massive billows that rose one after the other, like mountains swelling from the deep and the rain poured without letup.  On board the _Lady Elizabeth_, Will Turner was thankful for Original John's powerful grip on the tiller beside him.

"Can you see the _Pearl?" he shouted, as water exploded across the rail and swept foaming down the decks._

"Aye, cap'n!" rang back Irish John's shrill reply.  "But just barely!  She's bearin' away nor' west!"

Rain slashed like daggers until a man could scarce tell where sea and sky parted ways.  Will flung wet hair from his face with a savage toss of his head.

"What of the _Royal Venture?"_

A moment passed and the sloop shuddered as she heaved to the crest of another watery peak.

"Aye, she's still beyond the _Pearl, but sail is all I see.  We're going to lose her in this soup!"_

"Just keep your eye on the _Pearl!"_

Down the wave they plunged, Will and Original John together battling to keep the sloop aimed at an angle to the huge swell.  If they allowed her nose to point straight into a wave they could be swamped and driven under, or lose all steerage when it passed beneath and her stern and rudder were lifted out of the water.  If they turned broadside the towering seas could capsize them.  Will could not remember being so scared.

For it was not his life only, but the lives of his crew, Original John with his legs planted like tree trunks and great shoulders bowed, Matty Whitlock quick as a monkey to adjust the scraps of sail still up, and Anamaria strong and undaunted and sopping wet - '_Jack, you should have sent Gibbs.  If I make a mistake I've killed them all.'  If he failed … he could only pray that Jack would remember his promise, and see Elizabeth home safe in the end._

***

In the bowels of the _Royal Venture Elizabeth felt the floor surge heavily beneath her.  Up it pressed and then dropped with clutching speed, her shriek knifing the gloom as she went suddenly weightless.  She threw her arms about her head just before colliding into her cellmates in a tangle of knees and elbows.  The next heave pinned them there in a bruised heap of misery, while just outside angry seas wrenched the hull._

***

On board the _Black Pearl, canvas boomed like a rifle shot, leaving tattered remnants of a blown sail streaming down the gale.  The two men gripping the wheel looked up._

"Sorry, Jack!" Gibbs shouted over the howling deluge.  "We shoulda taken that one in more."

Yet as Jack Sparrow wrestled the _Black Pearl's helm, he bared his teeth in a snarl of defiance.  "Never mind, Gibbs!" he shouted back.  "Ol' Poseidon thinks he has us, but not now, not the _Pearl_!"_

***

Will Turner had never faced seas like these; huge swells of water that rolled at them so as to blot out the pouring sky, and then swept his sloop giddily upwards until she surged over the crest.  For that breathless moment they could see only a rain-riven wilderness of heaving waves, until they plummeted into the next trough once more.  Each time they sank down a wave's sweeping back, he feared they might never rise again.  Yet somehow they did, somehow the _Lady_ clawed her way clear, angling valiantly into one enormous swell after the other. 

Then at last Will looked up, and it appeared the ocean itself bent and rose and curved in a vast, gleaming green wall before them.  The _Lady Elizabeth started to climb, shuddering beneath the hands that gripped her tiller, but it was not enough.  Above them the head of that great sea began to curl._

"God help us," he breathed.

And the world broke in thundering chaos upon them.

***

Sunrise beamed upon the Caribbean in a warm flood of gold and violet.  From horizon to horizon the waters shimmered, as fleets of little flat-bellied clouds drifted above the deep.  Almost it appeared that the storm had torn itself to pieces, and the cottony puffs of cloud were all that was left.

That, and a tall black ship which glided alone amidst the golden seas.  On her foredeck First Mate Gibbs paced a slow but anxious circuit, every so often casting a troubled glance up into the rigging.  Nearby Tearlach and Cotton turned their silent gazes across the water, and even the parrot seemed subdued.  Meanwhile far overhead, above the crow's nest, at the highest point a man could climb or would even attempt to climb, Jack Sparrow clung to the main topmast.  To some he might have resembled a large, bedraggled bird blown in by the storm, but one look in those black eyes would have squelched the words unspoken.

"Blast you, show yourself!" he muttered.

But though he peered and squinted and scowled completely around the points of the compass, the horizon remained hazy and absolutely empty.  With a grimace that may have smothered an oath, he whipped his spy glass from his pocket and snapped it to full length, then hugged the mast with one hand while he repeated his scan with the glass in the other.  Nothing.  He snapped the glass closed, dropped it into his pocket, and swung to clamber swiftly towards the deck far below.

"Did you see anything?" Gibbs asked, even before Jack's feet touched the deck.

Sparrow landed with a thud and turned frowning.  "Did I say I did?"

Gibbs' grizzled features wrestled with a cross between chagrin and apology.  "Sorry, Jack."

"Not a bloody thing," Jack growled, turning his angry stare towards the rising sun.  "But they 'ave to be out there.  They 'ave to."

Nor was Gibbs about to ask what "they" Jack referred to, whether it was the prize they hunted or the captain and crew of their missing sloop.  He had his guess which it was, but he kept it to himself.

"What are yer orders, then?"

"We bear towards Port Paix," Sparrow said.

"But if the lad is somewhere lookin' for us -."

"He'll make for Port Paix."  Again that black stare skewered the older man.  "Will Turner is clever enough to remember his orders.  Head us towards Port Paix, Mister Gibbs.  We 'ave a ship to plunder."

With that Sparrow spun on his heel and stalked away aft towards the helm.  Behind him Gibbs sighed and cast one last look at the empty sea.  The cold fact was, Davy Jones had welcomed the bones of many a clever lad, and young Will Turner would not be the last.  Not to mention Anamaria, with a spirit like a flame that drew and scorched a man at once, but whom the sea could so easily quench.  Then Gibbs crossed himself hastily to ward off such ill luck and turned to his duties.  He had a hunch what emotions Jack's temper really masked, for he was struggling with them himself.

***

Bathing under whatever conditions had long since been reduced to fond memory for the captives aboard the _Royal Venture.  All the previous day and most of the night, it seemed that Hell had found them and its name was slavery.  Neither light nor clean air nor the merest comfort availed them, while the ship pitched and heaved their living bodies about.  Ere the night was done, those trapped within felt certain the hull would burst and the green sea pour in upon them._

Now … now the ship once more rose and fell easily, and eight bedraggled women could sit hunched in dark, miserable peace.  Elizabeth clasped her arms around her knees and stared up at the ceiling, never minding that the tracks of dried tears stained her face.  No one had fed them since before the storm.  No one had come in at all, and the foulness of the place only worsened.  Thirst was becoming a physical torment that grew with each passing hour.  As much as the women feared and hated every sight of their captors, now they wished fervently for that door to open and admit at least a bucket of cool water.

Elizabeth did not stop her thoughts from turning to her sighting of Will on board that boat, a miracle in the dark where she had expected no hope to be.  How had he found Anamaria?  Did that mean Jack Sparrow and the _Black Pearl were somewhere near?  What were they planning?  And there remained one question she feared to face … had Will and his pretty boat even survived the storm?_

"Oh, Will," she whispered, and felt new tears scalding the back of her throat.  "Where are you?"

***

The crew of the _Lady Elizabeth stared in silence at the sunrise, as if they had never seen such a lovely thing.  Perhaps after their long night, so it seemed.  In the rigging overhead a loose line slapped an awkward rhythm and somewhere a block clattered.  There were a number of things that rattled strangely aboard the sloop, now._

"Nothin'," drifted a voice from the topmast.  "I don't see nothin'."

"All right.  Maybe we'll see them … in a little while.  Come down, Matty.  One of the men is going to see if there's anything for breakfast."

Will leaned on the tiller and tried not to notice the trembling exhaustion in his legs.  When had he last slept; when had any of them?  Somewhere east beyond that sunrise was Port Paix and Elizabeth.  At least he thought it was east, as they were beyond any sight of Hispaniola now, blown off-course and out of visual contact with either the _Black Pearl_ or the _Royal Venture.  He could only assume they were now northerly of their original course and out in the main channel of the Windward Passage._

'_They must not make Port Paix.'  Jack's admonition rang in his weary mind.  Will had no doubt the larger ships had weathered the storm more handily than the little __Lady Elizabeth, and perhaps even now Jack was tracking the __Royal Venture and wondering where the rest of his crew had gone._

"Will …."

They dared not fail him now.  He dared not fail Elizabeth now.  Thus Port Paix must be their goal, and somewhere between here and there he must trust they would find the _Black Pearl_.  Hopefully before it was too late …

"Will!"

He started and straightened and looked into two pretty but troubled brown eyes.

"Are you all right?" Anamaria asked.

"Yes … I think.  How is the crew?"

"Other than some bumps and bruises, everyone is still with us.  One of 'em cracked his head pretty hard, but we got a bandage on it."

"Good."

"Will?"

"Hm?"

"Why don't you get some rest?"

"I'm all right."

He hoped the swaying he felt was just the boat, and not his wits taking leave.  Although the thought of simply falling face-forward was marvelously enticing.

"You look like you're drunk."  She fixed him with a penetrating stare that reminded him disconcertingly of Jack.  "I'll take the helm.  We'll all stand four-hour watches.  You go get some sleep."

"You first."

Anamaria's head barely reached past his shoulder, but he backed up when she took a fast step towards him.  "You're no use to me if you pass out on your feet!  I already slept early this mornin'.  Now go sleep!"

"What happened to 'yes, captain'?"

She whipped her right arm out to point rigidly towards the main cabin hatch.  "After you sleep.  Go!"

Mustering a feeble grin, Will said, "Aye, First Mate."

"And don't worry."  He paused in mid-step as she continued, "We'll need a bit of patchin', but any repairs can be made while we're underway.  I'll see to it."

"Thank you, Anamaria."  Will turned and glanced back over his shoulder.  "Thank you."

His legs were numb as wooden blocks as he fumbled down the companionway, and within moments of crawling into an empty hammock, he was sound asleep.  Outside the sun climbed into a glorious blue sky, and the _Lady Elizabeth lifted her nose into the wind._

***

TBC …

_A/N: Fear not, dear readers, Commodore Norrington will reappear in the next chapter!  He's far too interesting to leave behind. _ :-)_  LOL, and the bad guys will get their just desserts, of course … but they are not done being bad, yet.  Heh heh heh.  And THANK YOU for liking my Will!  I thought the guy had a whole lot of moxey to come storming out of his shop with a sword and a hatchet, ready to take on Barbossa's entire crew all by his onesies.  Young, naïve, idealistic, you bet - but he's no wuss.  I hope I will continue to please you, gentle readers, in all my segments to come._


	18. Chapter 18 Into the Breech

**PIRATES OF THE **CARIBBEAN******: THE AFRICAN STAR**

**By ErinRua**

CHAPTER 18

"Sail ho!  Sail ho!"

Even with several inches of wooden decking between him and the lookout, that cry snatched Will right out of his slumber.  He sat bolt upright and abruptly found himself flailing for balance, whereupon the hammock swung and twisted and dumped him slap-bang on the floor.  As he sat irritably batting the swaying contraption away, he thought he might never master the art of leaping awake from a ship's hammock.  Seconds later he burst through the hatch into near-blinding sunlight.

"What sail?  Where?"

He was demanding answers almost before he slid to a halt beside Anamaria at the helm.  To his surprise the sun stood past noon.

Anamaria simply pointed, and he turned to see Matty and Irish John leaning over the starboard bow, peering across the glittering waves.  Other men came to join them as Will bounded forward.  Far ahead gleamed a mirage of white sail on a blue sea; a square-rigger faring north-northeast up the Windward Passage.

Edging among the men to stand beside their keen-eyed lookout, Will asked, "What do you think, Matty?"

"It's the _Royal Venture," the skinny pirate said, and gave a firm nod._

"Aye," echoed Irish John, and turned with a squinty-eyed grin, his brogue deepening.  "And a fair sight she is, without the _Black Pearl nigh.  What do ye s'pose, Cap'n?  Can we fright her into surrender by lookin' fearsome and cruel?"_

With a wry grin, Will said, "Let us hope it won't come to that.  For now we'll make all possible speed, and hope Jack is not too far away."

"And if 'e is?"

One of the other men voiced that concern, and eight questioning faces now looked at their young captain.  Every one of them was at least ten years his senior, every one of them blooded in the ways of piracy and imbued with that keen sense of self-preservation that men who live precarious lives know best.

'_Most of them couldn't lead another man to anything but 'is next drink.'  It was remarkable and a little alarming just how often Jack's voice was reappearing in his head.  Yet the only question he knew to ask was; what would Jack do, now?  He swallowed the cannonball suddenly lodged in his throat before answering._

"Then we'll do the best we can," he said.  "The _Royal Venture must not make Port Paix."_

"But we're a four-gun sloop an' they're a twenty-gun brig," another man observed, and his doubt was mirrored in the weathered faces around him.

"Aye," Will said, and swept them all with his gaze as sudden certainty burned hot in his breast.  "Aye, but Jack Sparrow is behind us." He grinned and had Jack been there he would have seen the very image of Bootstrap Bill Turner.  "You belong to the dreaded _Black Pearl_ and there sails your prize.  You didn't fight sea and storm to hold back now!  What do you say, men? Take what you can!"

The response was a ragged cheer; "Give nothin' back!"

To his never-ending surprise the crew gave a yell and then scrambled merrily away to their duties.  As they scattered, however, he turned to find one pirate still standing there: Original John.  The man simply seemed bigger every time Will looked at him, his chest broad as an oak door, his massive shoulders swelling into virtually no neck at all.  Will could not believe he had withstood this monster once, and dreaded the thought of doing so again.  Yet as he faced the big man and struggled to master a rush of anxiety, Original John grinned with broken teeth.

"Want me to relieve the helm, Cap'n?"

Will looked at the man who had fought beside him for the life of the _Lady Elizabeth_ and her crew, and all he could think to say was, "Thank you, John."

Moments later the sloop spread every inch of canvas she owned, mainsail, topsail, and jib and flying jib above her bow.  Then she lifted her bowsprit and took to the wind with the speed of a racing gull.  On her deck Will lifted his face to the sun.

"Elizabeth …." he whispered.

As he closed his eyes she was beside him, her dark-honey hair flying on the warm salt wind, her eyes wide with wonder and laughter.  Oh how Elizabeth Swann would love the sweet sloop beneath his feet, and her absence wrenched him with almost physical pain.  He wanted Elizabeth here, now, to know this perfect freedom and to feel this sheer joy of a trim, merry craft that lived only to seize the wind in its sails.  When all this was done he would bring her aboard and the _Lady Elizabeth_ would give them both wings to fly.

***

"Ship ahoy!"

The shout from the _Black Pearl's foretop mast brought both Jack and Gibbs to attention.  Jack looked up and called, "Where away?"_

"Behind us, cap'n!  Away back off our port quarter!"

"What do you make it?"

"A ship, cap'n, a damn big one."

Sparrow visibly bit back his exasperation, seeming to count to three on his fingers before shouting back, "And just how big is that, Mister Duncan, if you would be so kind?"

There was a pause while the man aloft squinted and debated.  "I think it's a British ship-of-the-line!  A First Rate!"

 Jack winced, and Gibbs shook his head gloomily.  A First Rate ship-of-the-line, fitted with a hundred guns and a prodigious amount of sail, a floating arsenal that no pirate wanted to run afoul of.

"Not good," the older man mumbled.

"Oh, I think it's bleedin' marvelous," Sparrow retorted, and swung around to stride towards the stern.  "What an absolutely wonderful thing."

Gibbs glanced upwards into the rigging, and then lurched to gain a few steps as he hastened in his captain's wake.  Jack meanwhile seemed to have engaged in an acerbic conversation with himself.

"Why don't we just invite _all the friends and relations?  Come one, come all.  And do bring the children."_

"Cap'n?" came Gibbs' query.

"We could 'ave Aunt Hettie and Uncle Philip and their nasty little dog."  Jack spun to face Gibbs and swung both arms in an all-encompassing and thoroughly sarcastic gesture.  "Oh, and why not the neighbors with their buck-toothed daughter?  I'm sure they'd love to join the party, too."

Before Gibbs could reply Jack pivoted and sprang up the steps to the quarterdeck.  Shaking his head, the grizzled first mate climbed up after.

"Just fabulous," Sparrow continued to grumble, as he glowered back along the Pearl's foaming wake.  He expanded his spy glass and aimed it at the sails that marched along the horizon.  "The more the merrier, I always say."

Peering over Jack's shoulder, Gibbs had to agree that it was certainly a British navy warship back there.  Furthermore, it had a disconcertingly familiar appearance.

"Is that who I think it is?" he asked.

"Who else?  Commodore-bloody-Norrington, of course, and the pride of His Majesty's fleet, the _HMS Dauntless_."

Gibbs' whiskered face scrunched into a look of dismay, his gaze flicking from Jack to the tiny ship on the horizon and back again.  "Wot in blazes be they doin' out 'ere?"

Sparrow collapsed his glass and jammed it back into his waistcoat pocket.  He was still scowling across the water, and the tiny braids in his goatee fairly bristled.

"It would seem the good commodore has finally decided to put stock in young William's suspicions.  Or else the governor has said be damned with who Biltmore knows, just stop that bloody ship.  Either way -."  Jack cast the distant sails a final baleful glare.  "The waters 'ere are becoming a bit crowded."

Gibbs squinted at Sparrow, trying to discern where this mood would lead.  "What are ye thinkin', then, Jack?"

"I'm thinkin' …" Jack paused and his expression eased to one of contemplation.  "I'm thinkin' we'll keep a weather eye out and some distance between us, since the _Dauntless_ can't possibly keep pace with the _Pearl_ under full canvas."  His goateed chin rose and his eyes glinted keenly.  "We'll lose 'im as much as we want to."

"Eh?"

But Jack had already patted Gibbs on the shoulder and leaped back down the steps, leaving the older man standing with no more answers than he had arrived with.  Gibbs gave the distant warship a final dubious look then shrugged and tugged his flask from his pocket.  Times like this a man could use a little fortifying.

***

"Full-rigged ship.  Looks like she's pretty fair-sized, sir."

On the main deck of the _HMS Dauntless, handsome young Lieutenant Groves watched as Commodore Norrington peered through a brass telescope towards the set of sails their lookout had spotted some while ago.  The ship had not deviated from her course at all, that he could see, but there was still something about her … Something that miles of brilliant water and a dazzling Caribbean sun teased just beyond the eye's ability to grasp._

And then it struck him.  Those sails were not white.  Though limned in sunlight and shining like a seabird's wing, they somehow appeared almost sooty.  Smoky.

Black.  Not a coal black, oh no; that was not possible with canvas bleached in tropical sun and reflecting the glory of a summer day.  But there could be only one ship of that shape and size cruising these waters under darkened sails.  Yet Norrington found himself biting back the urge to speak her name just yet.

'_What mischief are you up to, Jack Sparrow?' he thought.  '_You and our errant blacksmith_.'_

Closing the telescope smartly, he said, "We will continue our course.  Whoever she is, she is not the _Royal Venture_ and thus no concern of ours.  Carry on."

"Aye, sir."

Groves saluted and vanished, to be replaced by Lieutenant Gillette.  Gillette's round face shaped itself into a grimace as he glanced at his commander.

"I do hope we will see the _Royal Venture soon.  We caught the fringes of that storm, but I dare say she must have been right in the middle of it."_

"Have patience, Gillette," Norrington replied. "We know her destination.  If anything the storm will have delayed her off-course."

"Aye, sir."  Then young lieutenant looked at him and said, "I still find that whole business remarkable."

"Oh?"  Norrington's glance touched his subordinate, neither encouraging nor discouraging him to speak.

"Well, that Sir John's first mate would do so foul a deed.  Killing that poor woman and then carrying her flat-mate away.  She had an Irish name, didn't she?  Rose?  Róisín?  Do you think they'll find her dead, too?"

"Who can say," Norrington replied.

"What I can't fathom is why would he kill one and take the other?  I don't understand what he was about."

"Slavery, Gillette."  Norrington met the younger officer's eyes coolly.  "If the rumors about Fry's master are true.  The missing Irish girl is said to be quite handsome.  The dead woman was very plain.  Fry made his choice accordingly."

"Good heavens!"  The expression on Gillette's face was that of a man who had just found an odious smell.  "At least the witnesses were credible, who saw him entering the house.  It's a pity they didn't come forward sooner, though.  We could have got the warrant before he sailed."

"It is.  But a brute like Thomas Fry doubtless would appear very intimidating to two elderly seamstresses."

"Yes … yes, that he would."  Gillette shook his head slowly.  "Anyone who would murder an innocent girl so he might kidnap the other…  I dare not think how this ties into Miss Swann's disappearance.  But at least the warrant for his arrest will give us the leverage we need to properly search that ship."

Norrington's mouth thinned to a hard line, his gaze fixed on some point in infinity.  "Down to the bilges, Mister Gillette.  If we must remove every last plank to do so."

With that Norrington about-faced and strode away.  Lieutenant Gillette sighed as he watched him go.

A sailor nearby also noticed and said, "'E's not a 'appy man, 'e ain't."

"No, he's not," Gillette replied, and firmed his boyish features to as much sternness as he could manage.  "But then the commodore has never had patience for being stymied by villains.  We had First Mate Fry within our reach once before, but the facts eluded us.  Now we know the man is a murderer and probably a kidnapper.  He won't get away again, Sir John Biltmore or no Sir John Biltmore."

Thus two ships, horizons apart, sailed towards a common goal.

***

Hispaniola reappeared as a smudge to the east, and slowly grew to a familiar horizon.  Once again they drew near the great thumb of land that formed Hispaniola's northwest mass, jutting into the Windward Passage towards Cuba.  The _Lady Elizabeth_ sped across the wind well behind the _Royal Venture_, putting the slave ship to the west and the distant shoreline off her starboard beam to the east.  There she took up a course between the slaver and land, but maintained a discreet distance.  To watching eyes she would hopefully seem no more than a local sailor reluctant to get too far from shore.

Slowly the miles slid by, the sloop now faring almost due north along the coast.  Will Turner felt the _Lady's eagerness surging beneath his feet and a thought startled him: _she's mine_.  A fierce, nameless emotion swept through him even while his conscience tried to argue.  He was a blacksmith, not a pirate; whatever would he do with a stolen smuggler's boat?  And yet … he was young and strong with a free wind to run on, and his heart sang in joyous paean to the music of the sea._

Meanwhile Matty Whitlock clung to the topmast like a lanky, redheaded albatross and kept a watch on the white sails out in deeper water.  He also kept an eye out for the _Black Pearl_, but so far no sighting had been made.  Original John once again had the helm, when Will came to stand beside Anamaria in the bow.

"How far do you suppose he is?" he asked.

"Jack?"  Anamaria's quick glance took him in, then returned to the horizon.  "No telling how far that storm blew him.  Probably has a bit of a job comin' back against the wind."

"But he'll be back."  Will nodded firmly, eyes on the glint of white canvas out yonder.  "We just have to watch until he does."

"Or until we run out of time."

That snapped his attention back to the woman pirate.  "How so?"

She lifted her chin towards the distant shore.  "About two more hours, and we'll raise the cape at Môle St. Nicholas.  If he gets around that … even if he doesn't run for cover at St. Nicholas itself, we've lost him."

"What?"

"Look, Will, the French turn a blind eye to us for a lot of things, but once around St. Nicholas we'll be in their waters, all the way to Port Paix."

"But … that's right below Tortuga, and nobody troubles you there."

"Yes, it is.  But St. Nicholas and Port Paix are theirs, not ours, and it'll be a little hard for them to ignore pirates attackin' a ship right under their noses."  She leaned towards him, dark eyes narrowed under the brim of her hat.  "We don't need to attract that kind of attention!"

"Two hours …" Will felt his stomach sink as he looked forward across glittering blue water that suddenly did not seem so friendly.  "Then Jack must hurry."

"Aye.  Or we must get clever."

She turned away and left him there, alone with the realization that she had just tossed the responsibility back in his lap.  Captain.  He was finding he did not much care for the promotion.

***

"There, cap'n!"  Duncan leaned precariously from the crow's nest of the Black Pearl, pointing frantically.  "That way!"

"The correct phrase," said Sparrow patiently, as he balanced against the masthead and adjusted his spy glass, "Is before the larboard beam.  You really must learn the proper nautical terms."

"Aye, cap'n," Duncan replied, but his mind, like his captain's, was on the distant sails that had emerged on their horizon.  "Is it them?"

"Aye, it is.  The _Royal Venture_ is again ours."

"An' the others?"

"Hm."  Sparrow swayed gently with the movement of the ship, glass anchored on his target.  "There is a bit of sail behind them which just might be our missing sloop."

Duncan grinned with every tooth he had, and Sparrow slid the glass back into his pocket.  "Keep your eye on them," he said.

"What about the _Dauntless, Cap'n?"_

Jack turned with one arm about the mast and looked back along their wake.  The tops of another set of sails still moved miles away, but they were sinking deeper into the horizon behind them with every passing moment.

"She can't keep up with the _Black Pearl, Mister Duncan.  By the time we catch Sir John Biltmore they will no longer be our concern."  Sparrow flashed a radiant, mad grin.  "If I'm wrong, we'll just 'ave to plunder quickly."_

Leaving his crewman to ponder that observation, Jack swung down and clambered towards the deck below.

***

An hour had passed and still no sign of Jack Sparrow.  From his post at the tiller Will watched as the headland began to bend towards them.  Out to westward the _Royal Venture held her course, her sails close-hauled for a long reach to windward, which would take her in a nearly straight line past the cape and then past Môle St. Nicholas.  Will struggled against a growing sense of suffocation with each passing mile.  If the _Royal Venture_ made it around the cape she would be on her last leg for Port Paix, and if threatened she need only dive for cover at Môle St. Nicholas.  However, she had no real threat to worry about.  A ten-man, eighty-foot sloop with four cannons could not hinder a slave ship bearing twenty guns and anywhere from fifty to a hundred men._

"The _Pearl!  Hey, mates, it's the _Pearl_!"_

That joyful shout rang from the _Lady Elizabeth's topmast, where Matty Whitlock clung like a monkey and waved as if possessed.  Every voice on board echoed his cheer and Will could have wilted right across the tiller to see those smoke-grey sails on the horizon.  Granted, the ship was still miles away, but the _Black Pearl_ was the fastest thing afloat and he knew that if they could see the __Pearl, the __Pearl could see them.  The hunter had caught up to the hound at last._

Beside him Anamaria grinned from ear to ear.  "There he is, the blessed scoundrel!"

"Aye," Will said.  "I don't know about you, but I was getting a trifle worried."

Seeing her lifted eyebrow, he added hastily, "About catching the _Royal Venture_, of course.  We do want to capture our prize, don't we?"

Anamaria gave a sniff that seemed suspiciously like a muffled laugh and turned away.  Yet Will only smiled as he turned back to maintaining their course.  '_Soon, __Elizabeth__, soon.'_

***

TBC …

**_A/N:_**_  Looks like a quiet day for author's notes, so I'll just let our Will-angst fans know - the next **two chapters get a little dark and dangerous.  And Jack just plain gets dangerous.  *Grin* Do stand by!  **_

_P.S.  The places named in this chapter do exist.  I am working from on-line historical maps of Haiti/Hispanola drawn in the 1700's._


	19. Chapter 19 Thunder

**PIRATES OF THE **CARIBBEAN******: THE AFRICAN STAR**

**By ErinRua**

CHAPTER 19

"She could be anybody, captain."

"But she's not, Mister Stone."  Sir John Biltmore braced his heavy frame to the surge of the deck beneath him, his narrowed eyes fixed on a white triangle of sails that had been pacing between them and the coast for some time now.

Mister Stone looked also and scratched his ear.  "Lot of sloops among these islands, sir.  They're perfect for shallow water."

"But only one that just a day ago was keeping company with what I can only presume was a pirate ship."

"I don't think -."

"No, you don't, Mister Stone.  It is my job to think, and your job to follow orders."

"Aye, sir."

A moment passed, the _Royal Venture working sturdily to beat her way against the trade winds of the Windward Passage.  Across bright water the sloop continued on, an agile, pretty thing that had no care for contrary winds.  However, the captain of the __Royal Venture had no aesthetic appreciation of any sailing vessel, let alone one that so thoroughly aroused his suspicion._

"Mister Fry!"

At that sharp summons the first mate appeared to face his captain.  "Aye, sir!"

"That sloop troubles me."

"Aye, sir, he has been there a spell."

"Very well.  Ease us off the wind a bit, and ready the starboard guns."

"Sir?"

"I want him sunk, Mister Fry."

"But sir, he could be anybody - he's most likely nobody."

Biltmore's heavy face hardened, hostility seeming to seethe like smoke just behind his eyes.  "Whoever he is, he's a nuisance.  If he is nobody, that makes it that much simpler.  Bring us to an intercept course, and prepare to fire on my command."

"Aye, sir.  And what of that other ship we just spotted away behind us?"

"We'll be finished and gone long before he draws near."

Thus First Mate Fry strode off briskly, and Biltmore returned to his brooding.  Behind him, Mister Stone took several wary steps back and then slipped away.  It did not pay to cross a man who would sink an unknown vessel on nothing more than an unfounded suspicion.  And he certainly did not want to end up like the poor devil they had flogged bloody two days ago.

***

"Ahoy the deck!  She's changin' course, cap'n!"

"I'm not a captain, Matty."  Will peered up towards the red hair fluttering on the topmast.  "And changing to what?"

"She's … she's sort of comin' this way."

Easing the tiller so as to peer past the great trapezoid mainsail, Will frowned in puzzlement.  The _Royal Venture_ as indeed bearing on a new tack, one which would before long converge directly into the _Lady Elizabeth_'s line of travel.  Why would the square-rigger waste the effort of coming in towards the coast, when clearly it needed to be out where it had sea-room to clear the cape?

"What's he doing?"  Anamaria appeared at Will's side, her dark eyes squinting into the sun.

"Whoever's at the helm ain't the full shillin'," said Irish John.  "Now 'e'll just have to take another tack to get around the cape."

Minutes passed as the _Lady Elizabeth danced upon the waves and the slaver grew steadily closer on a long diagonal.  Nor did the set of her sails alter in the least to suggest her master might be thinking of veering off._

Anamaria watched with the same growing trepidation they all felt.  "I don't like the feelin' of this."

Soon they could see tiny figures moving on the ship's deck.  Some seemed to be doing whatever it was needed to be done with the rigging.  But others….

"Mary, mother of God," breathed Irish John.

"They're mannin' the guns," was Anamaria's bleak pronouncement.  "They mean to fire on us."

Horror washed over Will like ice water and he twisted desperately for sight of the _Black Pearl.  She was still behind and gaining, but she might as well have been sailing on the face of the moon for all the good she could do now.  Any evasion the _Lady Elizabeth_ made would have to be towards the coast, which left limited room to manoeuvre and would soon see them trapped against the shoreline.  Unless …_

"Matty, get down from there!" Will shouted.  "John - both Johns, load the cannons.  Everyone, go load … whatever we've got!  Muskets, pistols, cannons, just load them!"

"And what will you do, Will Turner?"

He turned his head to meet Anamaria's dark stare and wondered, not for the first time, what went on behind that pretty, formidable face.  "I'm going to try to keep us alive."

***

They had finally been given food and water.  Granted, food was cold rice and mashed yams which the silent black man delivered in a bucket with coconut shells for bowls, but Elizabeth ate anyhow.  Beside her Bess dipped dark fingers into the pale grains of rice and every so often cast a glance at the white governor's daughter.  Unperturbed, Elizabeth licked every grain from her own fingers and then scooped up more.

Glancing up, she saw Sarah sitting with her coconut shell in her lap, dipping at the mashed yam with two very dainty fingers, and grimacing as if it were repugnant.

"Sarah," said Elizabeth, "Please eat it.  There is no ceremony to stand on, and while I agree it is dreadfully bland, it is food.  You need your strength."

"For what?" the girl whispered.

"For whatever may come.  If I can eat it, so can you."

The floor began leaning in a slow but inexorable tilt, and the women looked up and at each other in surprise.  Apparently they were changing course, but it seemed uncharacteristically sudden.

Elizabeth tightened her grasp on her bowl and said, "Goodness, what is this all about?"

***

It seemed no time at all before they could see the white spume bursting at the _Royal Venture's bow and could see the black muzzles of cannons crouched.  Tiny heads bobbed above her rails, total strangers who waited for the orders designed to blow the __Lady Elizabeth to match sticks.  The lines of convergence tightened towards a deadly intersection, and now Will's crew waited.  Nine men and one woman, not even enough to man all of their cannons at once, against that plunging beast of a ship._

Closer the two vessels grew and closer, jaunty little sloop and charging square rigger.  Closer … now they could read the _Royal Venture's name painted in crimson and gold on the escutcheons at her bow._

"Helm's a-lee!" Anamaria shouted, and Will threw his whole strength against the tiller.

The mainsail's boom fairly whistled over his head and canvas thudded as the _Lady's bowsprit swung like a saber into the turn.  Her rail nearly scooped water as she heeled before the wind and on that suddenly-tilting deck all aboard clung for dear life.  Then thunder burst in a ragged torrent from a blue-sky day and splashes raked the water where the __Lady Elizabeth would have been._

But they missed, for the sloop shot behind the _Royal Venture_ like a hound dodging a bull.  In passing one of her cannons spat a four pound ball right into the captain's cabin, exploding Sir John Biltmore's entire collection of fine French wine.

***

Elizabeth shrieked as explosions clubbed their hearing and something smashed outside their cell.  Her bowl flew skidding as she clapped both hands over her ears, and Sarah's chubby form collapsed half into her lap.

"What's happening?" someone screamed, as the echoes faded and the floor tilted anew.

"Cannons," Elizabeth gasped, looking up with wide eyes.

"Cannons!" Bess' alto tones burst out.

"Yes - yes, we're fighting someone - or someone is fighting us."

Bess' eyes glinted in the gloom.  "Your friends, you t'ink?"

"Yes - maybe - I hope."

"Bettah hope dey know where dey shootin', den.  Else dey put a hole in _us_."

Sarah was shivering like a panicked mouse as she stared blindly at the walls, and Elizabeth hugged the girl's head against her shoulder.  Despite Bess' warning she hoped, oh yes she hoped.  But if that were Jack and Will out there, she dearly prayed that she and her companions would still be alive for rescue when it was all over.

***

"What the devil was that?"  Gibbs squinted forward into the glare of sun and sea.

The _Royal Venture was still before them, sails slowly growing taller as the _Pearl_ drove on, but something had changed.  The _Royal Venture_ had veered strangely and now he could no longer see Will Turner's sloop.  What caught his attention was the strange fog that suddenly puffed into being away out there._

Seconds later a sound struck his ears, a dull rippling thud that a veteran of sea battles knew even in his sleep.

"Blessed be - Jack!  JACK!"

Sparrow sprang from seemingly nowhere and his next leap perched him atop the rail with a fist in the rigging.  "What in blazes are those people doing?"

"Jack, they've fired on the _Lady Elizabeth.  She was just sailin' along, but they've turned and I think they mean to sink her!"_

Now they glimpsed a much smaller sail, but again that distant thudding echoed on the wind.  Down Jack leapt and his dark face was savage.

"I want every sail this ship has got!  Gallants, stays'ls - run up your bleedin' trousers if they'll take a line!  Gibbs, see to it.  Tearlach!  Get the guns loaded.  Every man to his post or I'll flay every mother's son of you!"

Jack swarmed onto the quarterdeck like a one-man cyclone and nearly bowled Cotton away from the helm.

"We'll just see about this," he growled as he seized the wheel.

The pirate ship was suddenly a cauldron of furious motion as men scrambled to their duties.  Faster than seemed possible more dark canvas blossomed high above and was sheeted home.  Stays hummed and masts creaked as they took on the new weight of sail and wind, yet the ship found her stride with practiced ease and soon her bow lifted above a froth of racing waves.  The wind sang in her rigging, the sea crooned beneath her hull and the _Black Pearl bared her teeth for war._

***

"How far?" Will shouted, as he braced to keep from slipping on the slope of the deck.

"Jack's put on more sail!" Original John yelled.

"Aye," Matty shouted back.  "But it'll still take 'em at least thirty minutes to get here!"

If Will were a man given to oaths he would have cursed like the very devil, if it would only bring the _Black Pearl faster.  But it would not.  So he and Anamaria clung to the tiller, watched their sails and prayed as the slave ship leaned into pursuit._

Glancing at Anamaria he said, "We can't out-run them, can we?"

"Not in a straight race," she replied.  "She's got more sail, more hull - in other words, she can catch and hold a lot more wind than we can."

As Will watched, the slave ship's bow swung slowly about to meet them, on a tack that would put the wind strongly on its starboard quarter, a square-rigger's best wind, and also put it broadside to the _Lady_.  Yet beneath his feet he felt the life leaping in the _Lady Elizabeth_, impatient and keen as she sliced the waves.  In sudden determination he clenched his teeth.

"Then it won't be a straight race."

Anamaria's sharp voice seemed to echo his sentiments.  "Load all the cannons!"

"But we can't shoot all the cannons!" one of the men cried.  "We need at least four men to a gun and there's only eleven of us for guns and sails, both!"

"We just can't shoot them all at once," Anamaria retorted.  "Now load!"

She spun to face Will and demanded, "You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?"

For a split-second he could only stare, but then he grinned.  "Aye!  We'll sting him coming and going!"

Blacksmith and lady pirate together trimmed the sloop for the assault.  Canvas boomed as the _Lady Elizabeth_ caught her wind, leaping to meet her attacker.  Her long bowsprit thrust like a lance as she raced at near right-angles towards the slave ship's oncoming bow.

"If you are Erzulie," Will whispered to the wind, "then we need Ogun now."

_Royal Venture_'s guns thundered again, vomiting great gouts of smoke which rolled in acrid fogbanks.  But though something caromed wickedly over Will's head, the other shots skipped and plunged harmlessly astern.  Wind and tiller heeled the Lady sharply as the two vessels plunged towards each other.  The angle of the sloop's deck elevated the cannons on one rail, and Will counted the seconds while the _Royal Venture_ came on like a wooden avalanche.  The slaver would ram the much-smaller sloop if they could, but -.

"Starboard guns!" he shouted.  "Fire!"

A heave of the sea and the deck shuddered to twin booms.  As the _Lady flashed in front the slave ship's bow something smashed above and a man screamed._

Then they were in the open again, the _Royal Venture_ astern, and the _Lady Elizabeth seemed to lift into the wind like a falcon rising from her strike.  Her crew cheered and Anamaria shook a fist towards the slave ship's hulking form._

But they were not done, and blue water swung beneath their bow as the _Lady_ came about once more.  Even now the _Royal Venture turned to meet them.  Nor would the __Lady leave her wanting._

Again they flew with every sail full and one rail awash.  But this time the _Royal Venture_ knew the ruse and began turning ponderously broadside in preparedness, black gun muzzles gaping ready to belch death and terror.  Directly towards her the _Lady Elizabeth_ raced, her bowsprit aimed at the slaver's midships.  Still the _Royal Venture_ turned, the full bank of her guns coming to bear, but their prey plunged straight at them, too slim to make a good target and yet the thunder of cannon fire buried the blue water in smoke.

The _Lady Elizabeth disappeared in white vapor - and then a gunner shrieked as the tip of the _Lady_'s mast swung out of the murk, so close he thought it would take some of the __Royal Venture's rigging with it.  But she was not as close as that, only close enough to sweep under the slave ship's beam and slow broadside as she lost her wind.  The sloop needed little wind, however, as the _Royal Venture_ careened past.  The ship's empty guns could not reply as two four-pound cannon, four muskets and a boarding pistol bellowed in anger._

"Where is Jack now?"  Will shouted, as Anamaria helped him steady the tiller.

"Still comin'," Matty replied.

As the ship's tall stern slid away, they were behind the _Royal Venture_, between her and the cape before Môle St. Nicholas.  However, Will had little hope the slave ship would simply flee down the wind and give the _Black Pearl time and lots of open water in which to catch her.  No, Sir John Biltmore was not a man to concede defeat - a swift vision flashed of the man shooting a fleeing slave in the face.  Even as the _Lady Elizabeth_ regained her speed the _Royal Venture_ was coming about once more, bearing across the wind until she was beating straight for them again._

"Reload!" Anamaria shouted.  "Damn your eyes, if you want to live, reload!"

Aye, the _Royal Venture was coming again, and as Will watched his guts clenched into a hard, aching knot.  God forgive him, Elizabeth was on that ship and they were shooting at it._

***

TBC …

**_A/N:_**_  Someone wanted a battle - you got battle.  *G*  All hands stand by, we're not done yet …_


	20. Chapter 20 The Sea Reclaims

**PIRATES OF THE **CARIBBEAN******: THE AFRICAN STAR**

**By ErinRua**

CHAPTER 20

"I reckon they'll keep 'er somewheres aft."

Will started and looked at the man suddenly standing beside him.  Sunburned and ragged, he was not even sure he knew the pirate's name, but the fellow was staring at him with a queer sort of earnestness - and what had he just said?

"Beg pardon?"

"Where 'e keeps yer lady.  I reckon it'd be aft, near 'is cabin."  The man bobbed his head with an uneasy grin.  "I crewed on 'er once, th' _Royal Venture_.  Didn't 'ave th' stomach for it.  Sir John's a fearsome 'ard man."

"He would keep her aft?  Why do you say that?"

"Special cargo, I reckon.  'e'd want it near 'im.  'e'd not put 'er somewheres way below decks where others could muck about.  So me an' th' lads, we been shootin' high or low, but not to th' stern."

Will's hand slipped and canvas clattered somewhere overhead.  Steadying the helm, all he could think to say was, "Thank you."

"'s all right, cap'n.  Thought ye'd want to know."

Then the man shambled away and Will looked to the horizon.  There to west-southwest came the _Black Pearl_, striding across the wind like a thunderstorm, and as he met Anamaria's fierce gaze an answering hard grin grew on his face.

"All right, Sir John.  Time to let the _Pearl have you."_

With that they turned the sloop away from the _Royal Venture_, across the wind and towards the growing tower of black sails that was Jack Sparrow coming.  Beneath Will's hand the _Lady Elizabeth raised her head and flew like the lady she was._

Aye, the _Lady flew, like a falcon, like an arrow, like a wind running down a blue sky.  But the __Royal Venture took that same wind on her stern quarter and her vast sails bellied fat and full.  She came though the _Black Pearl_ drove towards them from the blaze of a sinking sun; she came though a gallant sloop strained for every knot she could command.  And when the _Lady_ was fairly run down, the big guns thundered once more.  The scream of chain-shot howled across the water and wood splintered like broken bones._

As terrible sounds burst among them Will would remember having only one thought:  They've killed us.

***

Jack Sparrow saw them coming.  He saw the _Lady Elizabeth racing for her life, soaring to meet him and the __Pearl, a gallant little hunter who had given her all and flew now to her master's glove.  And he saw the _Royal Venture_ lean to the press of the wind in its sails and he raged in bitter silence.  The _Black Pearl_ lunged towards them with every sail close-hauled and for an endless, breathless space he thought it might be enough._

But then he watched as the slave ship loomed upon the _Lady Elizabeth_ and then the _Royal Venture_'s cannons fired.  Huge smokes punched outward and the haze of it blew dreamlike across the water.  For a moment it almost seemed an illusion that the _Lady's mast was toppling, a trick of drifting white smoke and sunlight.  However, wind wafted the fumes away and reality was the _Lady_'s mast slowly tilting and sinking, her sails collapsing into the sea.  She could only drift on the remnants of her own speed, until the big guns roared one final time._

Sparrow never spoke as the _Black Pearl plunged across the waves.  He never spoke as he lined her bowsprit dead on the _Royal Venture_, spinning the wheel to follow its turn like a stalking cat.  Biltmore saw them coming, oh yes he did, but his arrogant blood-thirst mayhap had made him reckless, for the __Pearl was now far too close for escape.  Sparrow's hands gripped the wheel with terrible gentleness and his fingers caressed the spokes as the __Black Pearl, his huntress, surged beneath his touch and he felt her eagerness shuddering in his bones._

Nor did he speak as the slave ship turned on a broad reach and spread its wings to the wind for escape northwesterly across the Windward Channel.  They were abandoning the cape and hope of refuge at St. Nicholas.  However, perhaps Biltmore read the _Pearl's rage and knew that no harbor in the world would save him now.  Gibbs shouted the crew to their stations for he needed no orders to know what his captain wanted._

Like an avenging gale the _Black Pearl came, inexorably closing the distance.  She flew no flag because she needed none: black sails were banner enough.  At a thousand yards she turned her full broadside towards the slave ship, and savage men stared down the cannon barrels with smoking linstocks in hand._

"Fire as you bear!" was Sparrow's only command, and as the deck rose upon a long swell her guns boomed in smoking fury.

The sooty pall of her wrath obscured the damage from easy scrutiny, but the wind that drove her swept a clear sea astern.  There Gibbs stared behind the _Pearl_, grim and sad.  His ears rang and his eyes burned with smoke as he turned to the man next to him.

"Tearlach, best tell the cap'n.  We got people back there who'll be swimmin' real soon."

Up on the quarterdeck there was a brief, mad moment when Tearlach was truly afraid, for that great, shave-headed hulk of a man found himself staring at another half his size, and he saw Death.  Sparrow's seething black gaze was scarcely human and for an instant Tearlach was not sure the captain had understood the words he had spoken.  Perhaps Jack was beyond hearing and the prize fleeing before them was more than he would give up.

But then slender, bronzed fingers flexed on the helm, the fey eyes blinked, and the two little beaded braids in Sparrow's goatee twitched.

"Very well," Captain Sparrow said.

Thus for the first time the _Black Pearl let a prize go.  She turned her head across the wind sullenly, raggedly while the _Royal Venture_ fled away unhindered.  The slave ship was lame now, but reaching for the horizon and mayhap Cuba beyond._

"I know where to find her," Sparrow said.  Grimly the _Pearl retraced her course, to pick up what shattered pieces there might be._

***

On board the _Royal Venture a queer silence ruled.  Somewhere far away through wood and timber a man's voice cried out, a thin keening that drew nails across Elizabeth's soul.  She could feel the ship limping, things shuddering somewhere far above where sails no longer caught the wind so truly, and heard distant shouts of men cutting away sundered rigging.  The repairs being made seemed to demand a great deal of noisy haste._

Her head still rang like a struck bell from the chaos of sound that had seized them.  In the gloom the captives' eyes stared in fearful shock, amazed that they were yet alive and wondering if the thunder of death was about to return.  Yet the ship plunged on and the queer hush remained.  Distantly they heard voices of question and command.  The guns remained silent.

Finally Sarah's whisper broke the quiet.  "What … happened?"

"I think," said Elizabeth, "our ship escaped."

"From who?"

Who indeed?  Only once had Elizabeth known such a fury of cannon fire; when Barbossa sailed the _Black Pearl_ to destroy the _HMS Interceptor and recover the last cursed Aztec medallion.  This had to have been the _Pearl_ again, this time with Jack Sparrow at the helm, in an assault so savage that Elizabeth thought it would kill them all.  However, with a sinking heart she began to realize that, for some reason, Sparrow had broken off the attack._

"I'm not sure," she replied.

"You tink your friends?" Bess asked.

"Perhaps."

"Dey do all dis wit' dat little boat?"

"No … no, a bigger boat.  A pirate ship."  She felt them staring at her and looked up to meet the dimly-seen gleams of worried eyes.  "They are … good pirates.  Sometimes."

"But …" Sarah's round face registered bewilderment.  "Why did this ship get away?  Why are we still prisoners?"

For that, Elizabeth had no answer.  She would not, could not think the worst.  The _Black Pearl_ could not be vanquished by the likes of Sir John Biltmore and his reeking, filthy slave ship.  However, for reasons that frightened her to imagine, the _Royal Venture_ had escaped, and with her went eight women who feared they would find no escape at all.

A piercing gasp escaped Elizabeth's lips as wood grated and then the door of their prison slammed open.  Framed in pallid daylight their captor loomed, backed by First Mate Fry and two leering sailors, and they brought with them the sulfuric reek of gun smoke.  The blank crimson façade of Biltmore's mask shaped him as some great demon of wrath and his false voice dragged through his stifled fury like a plow blade through frozen gravel.

"Know this," he growled.  "Whatever hope you might have had, any of you, consider it dead.  Whatever friendships you keep, they are in vain."

Defiance flared before Elizabeth thought and she spat, "Jack Sparrow will never let you get away!"

"So … it's true that Sparrow is again master of the _Black Pearl."  Mocking humor scraped in his voice as he stepped into their cell, but it never touched the points of ice that were his eyes.  "Of course a governor's daughter would have only the cream of brigands as her ally.  But my dear, he already has let me get away."_

He saw the flash of uncertainty that crossed her face and chuckled without humor.  "Perhaps you are not as precious to him as you thought.  Tell me, Miss Swann."  Biltmore raised a languid finger towards her chin and behind the mask his eyes narrowed as she flinched away.  "With what did you buy this pirate's loyalty that he sells it so cheap?"

Cheap did not describe the hell of cannon fire that had rocked their ship, but her face flamed at his implications.  Through clenched teeth she spat, "It's not Captain Sparrow you need worry about."

Yet Biltmore met her seething glare bleakly.  "I worry about nothing, miss.  Very soon we will be in Spanish waters and the worry will be all yours."

His featureless gaze swept over the bedraggled captives like a slow scrape of cold fingernails.  "I will see you all … dead … ere anyone lays hands on this ship.  But you, Miss Swann, will first see your little friends, here, die before your eyes.  Remember that."

Biltmore turned and his henchmen retreated as he stepped out the door.  His exit seemed to suck all the air from the room and the thudding door shut them into wretchedness.  In the gloom Elizabeth slid slowly back to the floor.

"Oh, Will …" she breathed, and wished the desperate strength of her heart could somehow reach beyond these bleak walls, could reach across smoke and sea and the distance between them, even if only to shout, "Here I am!"  Silently she shut her eyes against a burning flood of despair.

"We make our own chances, den."  Bess' soft, deep voice spoke.  "We wait an' watch.  You see, miss.  Chances sometimes come."

"Yes," Elizabeth replied, and opened her eyes once more.  Will would not wish her to concede defeat, even now.  "Yes.  Chances sometimes come."

***

The _Lady Elizabeth would fly no more.  Sunlight on water blazed a fiery halo around her, and in all that bright sea she laid alone, her silhouette hushed and still and strangely flattened.  Her decks were awash, tilting towards a shambles of mast and sails that trailed in the water like broken wings.  As she rocked in her solitary agony, wavelets tugged at the bodies of those who would never rise again._

There was no sound but the clunk of oarlocks as two longboats from the _Black Pearl_ drew near.  Jack was first to clamber over the smashed rail, and what he found … there were no words.  Chain shot and canister did terrible things, and the only voices now were those of the sea.

Will sat on the deck beside the splintered tiller, his arms draped over his knees, blank-eyed and motionless.  Sparrow pretended not to see the flush of bitter tears staining the young man's face.  Anamaria clambered to her feet to join them, bloodied but whole.  Jack took her hand and solemnly met her eyes as he pressed a kiss to her knuckles; nor did she pull away.  

They let others sort through the wreckage, though Sparrow knew already that the work would be short.  Deep inside the _Lady things creaked and groaned, and as a watery rumble vibrated in her timbers, the deck tilted just a little more._

"She's dying."

Jack looked down towards that soft voice.  Will's gaze remained fixed on things only he could see, or perhaps he still saw what used to be; a trim, brave sloop with sails like white wings and all the sea to run on.

"Aye, son.  She is."

A sighing breeze pushed at the broken vessel, but the _Lady_ could not respond.  If anyone spoke it was in whispers, for while tending the wounded none would disturb the dead.  Finally Will's gaze drifted upwards to meet his, but Jack looked away.  No man should stare another in the eyes and see his soul naked and hurting.

"I asked for Ogun," Will said softly.  "I think that was a mistake."

Anamaria shot Jack a quick glance and shook her head.  Best not to ask, not now.  Beyond them, men were transferring the injured to the boats.  Original John moved with ponderous care, Irish John's wiry form guiding the big man though blood streamed down his own face.

"We can't stay, mate," Jack said.

However, it was unclear if Will was hearing just yet, for the lad never moved.  When he spoke again it was in that same toneless voice, his eyes fixed elsewhere.

"I should have …" Whatever the thought was, it seemed to escape him and he frowned.  "What of the others?"

'The others' were those who lay motionless before them, on a deck where blood and water swirled in ghastly patterns.  Two of the dead had signed on with the _Pearl for the first time at New Town.  One was the man who once sailed aboard the __Royal Venture.  The last was gangly, redheaded Matty Whitlock._

Gently Jack replied, "Let the _Lady_ keep them."

A moment passed before Will looked up again and said, "Did you know Matty wanted to buy a fiddle?"

That of all things Jack had never imagined and he could not frame a reply.  He could only look down at that handsome young face and try to swallow the god-awful hollowness in his gut.  Damn luck and damn Sir John Biltmore and damn you, too, Jack Sparrow.

Aloud he simply said, "Time to go, Will."

A brief spark flickered in Will's eyes then, his seat on the deck suddenly a point of anchor.  "In a moment."

From down in the _Lady Elizabeth's hull more sounds of breaking gurgled forth, and then Jack realized Will's intent.  When the dead were secure in the cabin below, when the wounded and Jack's crew were all in the boats, when Jack himself stepped over the rail and sat down, only then did Will move._

He stood and slowly walked the sloping deck, seeming not to notice the ruddy blush in the water swirling about his feet.  Original John reached with his one good arm and steadied the young man while he stepped over the gunnel and Jack watched Will sit as if he bore some hidden wound.  Which it was clear he did.  As surely as if he bled, Will Turner was wounded.

Strong arms pulled the oars and drew them away across the water.  From one of the longboats a voice arose in a long, clear note that trembled like a fine wind in the rigging.  Like weeping it was, ere it slid away into strange and mournful words.  T'was Irish John singing a _caoineadh_ for the _Pearl's dead and his lament needed no translation._

Behind them the sea gently rose and fell and rose again, until somewhere between one swell and the next, the _Lady Elizabeth slipped away.  Moments later, only swirling water and splintered wood marked where she went down.  In the longboat Will made no sound and he did not look back._

***

TBC …

**_A/N:_**_  There you have it, two chapters at once, since I figured an angry mob would hang me from the yard arm if I left them with a cliff-hanger like chapter19!_

_  These two may have been the hardest to write, yet.  I hope they worked!  Thank everyone for reading._ :-)


	21. Chapter 21 The Space Between Storms

**PIRATES OF THE **CARIBBEAN******: THE AFRICAN STAR**

**By ErinRua**

CHAPTER 21

Men stood at the rail of the _HMS Dauntless in silence, watching the bright water that flowed below.  All had heard the distant thudding rumble of cannon fire.  Now they saw what seemed to be proof of its effect.  Broken planks, a shattered section of railing and indeterminate scraps of painted wood all drifted past in a straggling pattern of destruction that bobbed gently on the waves._

"Do you think someone _sank the __Royal Venture, sir?"_

Lieutenant Gillette's round face registered a mix of doubt and grim fascination, which was mirrored in the more angular features of Lieutenant Groves.  Since the slave ship was their quarry it was only natural to suspect the wreckage was her, but there certainly were other ships in the Caribbean.

Commodore Norrington's gaze noted and itemized each bit of flotsam they passed.  "I think not.  We are finding no bodies, which would seem unlikely for the crew on a ship of that size, and the paint is the wrong color."

"It is?"

"See there?"   Norrington pointed to a bit of shattered planking.  "That is white, but the _Royal Venture is painted in blue, green and gold, with not a bit of white on her."_

"Why, so it is," Groves agreed.

"But it's clear someone was sunk," Gillette added.  "I wonder who they were."

Groves eyed his commander with only thinly veiled excitement.  "Did pirates attack them, you think?"

Norrington frowned, prepared to quash the young men's over-eager imagination and say no, but then found himself reluctant to divulge too much.  He knew they had spotted the _Black Pearl this morning, which meant of course she had seen them, and for a time she had remained far ahead on the horizon.  She eventually outpaced them, much to his chagrin, but he felt certain that she was also on the trail of the __Royal Venture, incited no doubt by the unrelenting young Mister Turner._

Gillette nudged him from his musings by adding, "Might it involve that … other … ship we saw this morning, but which we're not talking about?"

Norrington turned his head to regard his officer's wise smile.  The young man was clever enough to have made his own observations, but thankfully shrewd enough to have kept his suspicions silent until now.

"It might … but something does not add up."

"How so, sir?"

"If that ship we're not talking about were pursuing a rich quarry such as the _Royal Venture, it would be foolish to stop and attack random vessels along the way.  Their real prize would in the meanwhile escape."_

"Ah."  Gillette's eyebrows rose thoughtfully.  "And it would make no sense for that ship we're not talking about to risk giving up a known prize, for some odd chance that may bring only a pittance."

"Precisely." 

"So there are simply pieces to this puzzle that we don't have yet."

"So it would seem," Norrington replied.  "However, since there appears to be no one to rescue, we must resume our search.  Sir John's last known destination was Port Paix, so there is where we must go."

"Aye, sir."  Gillette frowned sadly as one last fragment drifted by.  "I do hope whoever these unfortunates were, they found rescue."

"One hopes, Mister Gillette.  One hopes."  Norrington granted the young officer a small, sympathetic smile before turning away.

Then a shout rang from the foretops as a lookout cried, "Sail, ho!  It's the _Royal Venture_, sir, off our larboard beam!"

Startled, Norrington stepped to the rail and peered into the glare of sun and sea.  Sure enough, there was the _Royal Venture, going hull-down to the northwest in an almost opposite direction from Hispaniola._

"Whatever is he doing there?" asked Groves with a frown.  "That's not the way to Port Paix."

"No," said Norrington, his gaze narrowing.  "But it is the way to Santiago, Cuba.  Helm!  A change of course if you please!"

The commodore strode away to give his bearings for the new tack, leaving the two young officers to mimic their commander's grim stare towards that distant sail.  Then Gillette smiled thinly.

"Well, Sir John, I don't think you'll be getting to Santiago."

Away to the northeast cruised a darker set of sails, lost in haze with the murky coast of the cape at St. Nicholas behind her.  On her decks, however, another man stood with a spy glass to one eye and watched with great interest the manoeuvres of those distant sails.

"Excellent form, Commodore," he murmured.  "He's been hurt once already.  One look at you and he'll turn and run like frightened nun."

Sparrow lowered the glass with an expression of great satisfaction.  Beside him the weathered face of Cotton, the mute, squinted in the sun and as ever he made no sound.  The parrot on his shoulder, however, bobbed its blue and yellow head to screech, "Blow the man down!"

"Right you are, Parrot and Mister Cotton," Sparrow replied and a keen, gold-touched grin creased his face.  "Right into our arms."

***

The sun was setting when Sparrow again found Will.  Upon return to the ship Will had vanished below decks to aid as he might in tending the _Lady's wounded men, while Jack had been busy topside with other matters.  Now, alone on the _Pearl_'s foredeck, the young blacksmith stood staring across watery undulating ribbons of blue and gold._

"Been like that over an hour," Gibbs said quietly.

Sparrow grimaced and sighed.  There was little gentleness in a seaman's life and less among pirates.  A man endured or he did not.  Yet for reasons that did not bear examination, Jack ambled forward to lean on the rail not a hand's width from the boy.  He did not speak, however, leaving Will to have the first word if aught was to be said.

After a time, Will said softly, "Tell me what I should have done different."

Jack shook his head, even though the lad was not looking at him, and matched his quiet tone.  "You done what you had to.  I don't ask more than that."

The glance Will shot over his shoulder was sharp enough to cut glass.  "Then what would _you_ have done?"

"What would I do?"  Jack leaned his hip against the rail and pursed his lips thoughtfully, fingers briefly tapping his chin.  "Why, I reckon I would 'ave put on all sail, swore in two or three languages, and then did my best to knock the bejeezus out the ugly bastard until somebody bigger than me came along to finish the job."

The younger man's eyes narrowed, but Jack held his gaze steadily.  "Son, it doesn't matter what I would or wouldn't do.  What matters is that you did the best you could do with the situation you were given."

Yet the words missed their mark and Will's dark head bowed between hunched shoulders, his fingers tightening on the rail.  "But it wasn't enough, was it?  Men died out there, because I wasn't clever enough to make the right choices."

"No.  Men died because the _Royal Venture shot you out of the water."_

His head popped back up again. "Then tell me what I should have done!"

"Fight.  Sail.  Claw and bite and shoot and never give the other man the upper hand."

"But …" The starch seemed to run out him again, and Jack could see the damnable, breakable, idealistic youth in those wounded eyes.  "I tried.  And they got us anyway."

"That's how it 'appens sometimes, Will.  You don't always win."

Sparrow watched as that cold truth struck home, and it was clear the idea did not sit well.  Will Turner was a young man who believed all things were possible, if a man knew he was right and just applied himself diligently enough.  Until today, perhaps he had not seen enough of the world to realize that sometimes the wrong people triumphed.

"What are you saying, Jack?"  Temper began to boil slowly up from some reservoir he usually kept capped.  "Are you saying that all of this was for nothing?  That I shouldn't even have tried and that Elizabeth might as well give up hope now, because there's no chance of winning?  Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

Jack held up one finger.  "No."

Then he leaned once more on the rail and pretended to admire the sunset, now igniting distant clouds into towers of gold.

"Jack …"

Sparrow looked at Will sidelong.  "Today you were in a fight, and you lost.  There is no matter of fault or blame in it.  Tomorrow, however, is another day.  And if you look yonder, you may observe that the interesting cloud formation off to the north is actually Cuba."

The look of blank surprise on Will's face was priceless, and also proof of just how gone in gloom he had been.  He frowned slightly, and then a ghost of a smile touched his lips.

"Cuba, hm?"

"Aye.  And we seem to be bound north-northwest.  Right up the Windward Passage."

A glimmer appeared in Will's eyes.  "Baracoa?"

"Baracoa."

Jack smiled to see the young man's chin come up, the dark eyes narrowing to scan the horizon with a renewed and familiar intensity.  A moment, then Will looked at him again.

"What did I hear about the _Dauntless being behind us?"_

"Oh, that.  She's back there somewhere.  She's proved herself rather useful, actually." As Will cast him a skeptical look, Jack quickly explained.  "Why, it was your commodore's quick action that prevented the _Royal Venture from escaping to Santiago.  Funny thing, though - when Sir John turned back towards Port Paix, he came under the strangest suspicion that a pirate ship waited on the other horizon."  _

Sparrow brought both hands together beneath a smug smile.  "Thereupon the _Royal Venture_ took fright and is now sailin' her merry way north towards eastern Cuba.  I reckon we'll be at Baracoa to meet her before two days 'ave passed."

"Why would Sir John flee from Commodore Norrington?"  Will subtly raised one eyebrow.  "He's being chased by a pirate - I'd think he'd run straight to the Navy's arms."

"Ah, but ask yourself, why the commodore is here?"  Jack's fingers seemed to daintily pluck words from the air as his self-satisfied grin widened.  "I imagine Sir John came to the very conclusion I did; the _Dauntless_ is 'ere because something changed your governor's mind and he now wants Sir John's head on a platter."

"Then where is the _Dauntless now?"_

"As I said, somewhere behind us, but really, she's no trouble at all."

"Beg your pardon!  A hundred gun ship-of-the-line is a _lot_ of trouble to most pirates."

"Ah, but I'm not most pirates."  Sparrow leaned from the hips and gave a toothy smile.  "Honestly, Will, you worry too much.  Very soon we'll be runnin' around the eastern tip of Cuba and unless the commodore wants to explain his British Royal Navy self to any Spanish warships in the vicinity, it's highly unlikely we'll 'ave to worry about the _Dauntless again.  We'll be out of British waters before morning and Commodore Norrington will 'ave to go back to harassing poor unsuspecting rum smugglers."_

"Spanish warships? Jack, they won't think any more of us than they do of a British naval vessel."

"Then we'll just 'ave to make sure they don't see us, won't we?"  Abruptly Jack frowned.  "Meanwhile, you, Will Turner, look absolutely scuppered.  When did you last sleep?"

With some surprise, Will said, "I don't remember."

"Then go get some rest.  Before you know it we'll 'ave our prize."  Sparrow lifted his gaze reverently and raised his hands to shape the vision of splendor in his mind's eye.  "Think of it, mate.  Gold and silver, silks and ivory, the ill-gotten gains of all groaning Africa.  And a diamond fit for kings in the hands of the most notorious pirate in the Spanish Main - nay, the Seven Seas!"  His expression dropped to sudden caginess and he squinted at Will.  "You don't mind if I keep the African Star, do you?"

Will gave him a look of great forbearance.  "I've told you, all I want is Elizabeth."

"Yes, yes, of course, you want Elizabeth.  How silly of me.  Now go on with you."

"Good night, Jack."

Sparrow's expression sobered as he watched the young blacksmith turn away.  Yet some impulse compelled him to speak again.

"Will."  He paused as the boy glanced at him, and when Jack continued his slurred tones were oddly gentle. "I saw what happened to the _Lady_.  And Anamaria told me the rest.  You fought a brave fight.  A man can't do more than that."

Will swallowed and simply nodded before resuming his steps.  However, he took only three paces before looking back over his shoulder, and the earnestness on his handsome young features was almost painful.

"I think I understand something now, Jack.  They were pirates … but they were good men."

At the companionway to the crew's quarters Will met Gibbs, and paused to nod towards the helm.  "When did he decide we're going to Cuba?"

"Ah," said Gibbs, grimacing thoughtfully.  "Well, I reckon that was when Biltmore murdered the _Lady Elizabeth_ and her crew, with never cause er provocation."  The stocky old seaman narrowed his eyes and gave Will a sudden wily grin.  "Y' see, it ain't enough any more if Jack takes that man's ship.  Now 'e wants everything 'e's got."

Sparrow watched as Will vanished below decks.  Giving the boy a full night's sleep was all he could do.  Time to rest.  Time to grieve.  Time to let go the broken pieces during the dark watches of the night, so that strength could be regained with the sunrise.  Jack remained standing amidst the voices of wind and sea as Cuba's distant coastline faded slowly into twilight.

***

Starlight and a black sea were the realms the _HMS Dauntless_ sailed between now.  Tortuga lay somewhere to eastward on an unseen horizon, but her bow was aimed just a few points east of the North Star and would not come near the island of the buccaneers.  Port Paix lay even further behind and no longer figured into her commander's reckoning.  He should sleep, but restless still he prowled the quiet deck and listened to the wind in the rigging and the creak of a working ship.

"Still awake, sir?"

Norrington looked to see Gillette smothering a yawn and offered a tiny smile.  "As are you.  Your watch is over, get some sleep."

"Aye, sir.  I'm just heading that way."  The young officer paused however, and cocked his head.  "Sir, I was wondering … that ship we're not talking about.  She must be the cause of the _Royal Venture's new course, don't you think?"_

"Perhaps, Gillette."

"I think she must be.  I never saw her, but all of a sudden there goes Sir John - it was passing odd.  She must have been beyond our horizon, but certainly not beyond his.  A clever trick, that, when you think about it.  Confound the winds that would favor him, but not us!"

Norrington made no reply, although Gillette's musings closely matched his own troubled thoughts.  The lieutenant frowned in contemplation.

"What perplexes me," he continued, "is why would … those others … want the _Royal Venture to go flying off north?  There's nothing up there but Cuba, and I suppose eventually the Bahamas. I'd think they would prefer to catch her closer to Tortuga."_

"He wants her out of our reach," Norrington said grimly.  What he did not voice was his infuriation that he had unwittingly turned the _Royal Venture_ right into Sparrow's hidden trap.  "If Sir John is fleeing to his estate in eastern Cuba, he will soon be where he hopes we cannot follow."  He glanced sidelong at his subordinate.  "_He is counting on our reluctance to invade a Spanish territory."_

Gillette's boyish features shaped themselves in an O of chagrined surprise.  "Oh dear."

"Indeed.  Therefore we must catch them before they get there."

"And before the ship we're not talking about catches her, first."  The lieutenant paused and gave Norrington a doubtful look.  "The _Dauntless_ can't outrun … them … can she?"

"We don't have to, Mister Gillette.  We need only out-think him."

"But you just said we will be in Spanish waters if we continue this course!"

"So we will, Gillette.  So we will."  Norrington gave a wintry smile.  "But we are a Royal British Navy vessel pursuing a ship sailing under the English flag, and I have no intentions of letting anyone have her before us."  He turned a narrow gaze out across the starlit sea, where a certain black ship ran somewhere just beyond view.  "Especially _him_."

***

Beneath a late-rising half moon the _Royal Venture_'s masts bore a full suit of sails that strained for every ounce of wind.  All repairs had been made that could be, for they fled now from two hunters.  The watch was doubled this night, the men with the best vision chosen to spy the way and look for any hint of pursuit or hazard upon the darkened sea.  Somewhere behind lay the _HMS Dauntless, pride of the Caribbean fleet, but the master of the _Royal Venture_ rested his hope in the probability that Commodore Norrington would not be a man to risk scandal by creating an incident in Spanish waters.  His real worry lay in the pirate ship that stalked the sea unseen.  That it remained a threat, Sir John Biltmore had no doubt._

In his cabin the big man sat at a polished table beneath the warm glow of lanterns, his fingers tracing upon a chart laid before him.  There bent the eastern tip of Cuba, and just above lay the harbor that was his refuge.

"You are no respecter of flags, Jack Sparrow," Biltmore murmured, and tapped the parchment gently.  "Unlike our navy friends.  You will try to follow me even there, won't you?  For I know you are still out there, somewhere in the dark.  But not for the woman, oh no.  We both know it's not that."

His eyes glittered in lamplight as he sat back in his chair and raised a hand to touch the breast of his elegant coat.  A moment, then he slid his fingers inside the satin lining and from it withdrew an ornate pistol.  Carefully he checked the priming before laying it on the table, its muzzle facing his locked door.  Then he returned his hand into his coat and brought it forth holding a small, softly-gleaming casket, the wood so finely joined it appeared without seams.

Gently he caressed the box's satiny finish, fingers sliding to click a tiny brass latch.  He lifted the lid to reveal a small pillow of blue satin … and a shimmering fragment of the stars themselves.  Few ever saw the expression that came over Sir John's face, a softening of features that might have let a viewer name him handsome, a gentle wonder that only the recognition of perfection could inspire. 

As his fingers delicately touched the iridescent gem, he whispered, "No, Sparrow.  So fine a thing shall not be thine, but only death."

***

TBC …

**_AN:_**_ Dear Readers: Just a quick but heartfelt note to say Thank You from the bottom of my heart.  Your responses to the last two chapters were absolutely wonderful, and I can't express how overjoyed I am to hear that things I attempted to do in those chapters actually worked as planned!  A writer can know no greater pleasure.  Many thanks again!  :-)  _And don't worry - Jack is far from through with his tricks, nor have we heard the last from Elizabeth or the Commodore …__

_P.S. To Jackfan2's suggestion that I should send this to Disney - bless your generous heart! *HUG* But unless I run into Gore Verbinski or Jerry Bruckheimer in the supermarket (not likely) I'd be terrified to send this anywhere.  I'm just a small-town fan with no clue where or through whom one would seek tie-in novel licensing, and I'd dearly hate to wake up with a mob of angry Disney lawyers pounding on my door.  After all, we're but humble pirates ourselves, sneakily plundering the Mouse's movie hoard …_ :-)


	22. Chapter 22 All the King's Men

**PIRATES OF THE **CARIBBEAN******: THE AFRICAN STAR**

**By ErinRua**

CHAPTER 22

Jack Sparrow was not amused.  He had truly hoped sunrise would find his quarrysafely sailing along the Cuban coast and the _HMS Dauntless_ long gone about other business.  Sure enough, the _Royal Venture was a small, distant silhouette cruising on the horizon towards Cuba.  However, his narrow gaze also noted another set of proudly gleaming sails a distance behind Biltmore, and only one ship in this area would put on quite that much canvas.  Commodore Norrington had obviously not shared in Sparrow's plan._

"I am not amused," said Jack.

"Understandable," replied Will, as he studied the same dawn-blushed sea.  "It looks like the Commodore will catch Biltmore before the morning is out."

"That -."  Sparrow thrust up one rigid finger and his dark face was livid.  "Will not happen.  It will NOT happen!  NOT!  Happen!"

With that he spun and stormed away, arms flailing as if in time to some internal diatribe.  Will bit down on an exasperated sigh and hastened after him.

"Jack, you can't engage the _Dauntless."  He tried to match his pace to Sparrow's frenetic one.  "That would be suicide.  And you know Norrington will not stand aside simply because you appear on the scene."_

"Sail ho!" rang a shout from aloft.

Jack jerked to a halt and glared up into the rigging.  "Bloody what now?"

"Just a point off our port bow," Duncan's disembodied voice replied.  "Yonder comin' down the coast.  She's pretty good-sized, cap'n!"

With a bound Jack was at the rail, where he fumbled his spy glass from his waistcoat pocket.  Beside him Will peered towards the distant coastline and saw indeed a white gleam of canvas.

"Ah, now will you look at that …" drawled Sparrow, glass held to his eye.

"What is it?"

"Spanish ship-of-the-line, mate.  Seventy-four guns or I'm me uncle."

Will's eyes widened as he stared at the newcomer and then back at Jack.  "Then he sees us, too."

"Yes, I rather think he does."  Sparrow collapsed his glass and began briskly striding aft.

The ocean was suddenly becoming a marvelously populated place, and Will's young face was a study of desperate and conflicting emotions as he scrambled after the captain.

"Jack, you _did agree that the Spanish have no love for pirates, didn't you?"_

"Ah!"  Sparrow stopped and wheeled so fast Will almost collided with him.  An awful lot of teeth shone in the pirate's sudden grin.  "Then we had better not let them catch us, aye?  This is the time, mate, when brains must suffice where brass will not."

"But -."

Sparrow about-faced in a flurry of braids and beads and resumed stomping towards the helm.  The thick plait of hair at the back of his head bounced between his shoulder blades with each stride.

"Obviously the commodore is not above taking a calculated risk.  That being so, I say we should test his steely British resolve."

He leapt up the stairs to the quarterdeck and Will scrambled up behind.  "Meaning what, Jack?"

Jack's face was suddenly inches from Will's own as the blacksmith jerked to a halt on the steps.

"William, do you know that some of the finest swords in the world are made by smiths in Toledo, Spain?"

"Of course I do, but what does -."

Sparrow's gaze went unfocused in contemplation as he tapped his fingers to his lips.  "I wonder how Spanish steel fares against British, ay?"

Will still grasped the rail as Jack swung away, saying, "Keep a weather eye out, mate!  You never know what one may spy in these waters."

***

"Sir, that - that -."

"I see him, Gillette."

Norrington stared narrowly across miles of blue ocean, watching more than the sails of the merchant vessel he was pursuing.  They had been steadily gaining on the _Royal Venture since spotting her at dawn, which was after all a mathematical certainty.  The __Dauntless possessed the greater sail and more, a shrewd commander who knew how to wring every last knot of speed from her, while measuring a foe's course to precision.  However, that unmentioned other had finally appeared from lurking beyond the horizon and Norrington was not in the least amused._

"What is he doing?"  Gillette's face screwed into a look of utter confusion, which in his case instantly reduced him to the appearance of a sixteen year old.

"I imagine we shall see."

What 'he' was doing, that ship and captain for whom Norrington had not yet spoken names, was making himself bloody hard to ignore.  Several of the _Dauntless' officers and a number of her men were already drifting to the starboard rails.  There they squinted towards the silhouette that seemingly emerged from the blaze of the sun itself.  A ship it was, her full press of canvas bent like bold black wings before the wind.  Let it never be said that Jack Sparrow lacked a flair for drama._

"Surely he's not going to attack her right in front of us."  Gillette turned a dubious look to his commander.  "Is he?"

The commodore made no reply, though his mouth tightened to a thin line.  Not even Sparrow could be so rash as to strike a vessel under the very eyes of a 100-gun British warship.  Not when there would be no hope of holding that prize long enough to plunder it.  Yet what in heaven's name could that madman be planning?

"She sees him …. Look, she's turning towards the coast."  Raising an arm Gillette pointed ahead, where the small figure of the _Royal Venture was indeed trimming sails for a new tack._

"He's driving her," Norrington mused, narrow-eyed.  "But why?"

"Deck, ahoy!  Sail, sir, two points off the larboard bow!"  A pause.  "Sir, it looks like a Spanish seventy-four!"

***

On the decks of the _Royal Venture men stared in dismay at the black apparition striding out of the sunrise towards them.  Great sails spread like the wings of a stooping hawk, and though it appeared a toy figure at first sighting, the ship seemed to grow with preternatural swiftness.  No living ship should have black sails and this demon had already hurt them once.  Now more prayers flew from the slave ship's decks than perhaps Heaven had ever heard from that crew._

Sir John Biltmore, however, felt the vastness of his wrath straining the fine brocade upon his breast, and his voice was the thunder that drove his men beyond their fear.  Sailors scrambled and canvas billowed as the helm spun to a new course.

On the black ship came, driving at an angle from the sun-washed open sea, but now Biltmore watched with savage anticipation.  For bounding towards them along the coastline of eastern Cuba ran their salvation under the white-and-crimson banner of Spain, while coming behind sailed the British bane of pirates the seas over.

"Now we'll see, Captain Sparrow," he forced through clenched teeth.  "If you keep coming, I'll have you between the Devil and the deep blue sea."

"Sir, we found the flag!"

Biltmore turned to face the man panting from haste beside him, and raised a single eyebrow.  "Then run up our colors, Mister Stone.  We are after all an honest merchant under the flag of his Spanish Majesty, King Charles the Second."  His eyes narrowed.  "And tell Mister Fry I wish to see the governor's wench."

Within moments the slave ship's rigging blossomed with the rippling folds of the Burgundy Cross.  Straight towards the Spanish warship the _Royal Venture now made, and ere long lookouts on both sides could clearly make each other out._

Elizabeth staggered as she was hauled bodily into blinding sunlight, and wrenched at the hands gripping her arms.  "Let me GO!"

"Not yet, pet," growled First Mate Fry.  "The cap'n wants to see you."

"Yes, but MUST you twist my arms until -."

"Let her go, Mister Fry.  Thank you."

That supercilious, rasping voice set Elizabeth's teeth on edge even before she spied its owner.  Legs wide apart the _Royal Venture's master stood on deck, imposing, elegantly clad and once again masked like some macabre player in a grim devil's drama._

Staggering as the restrictive hands suddenly let go, Elizabeth caught her balance and immediately drew herself up straight as she could.  Even in dingy linen with her hair gone wild she was still a governor's daughter, and sternly reminded herself to keep her chin up.

"What is the meaning of this?"

"I would like you to bear witness, my dear," Biltmore replied, and languidly swept a hand outwards.  "It would seem you have more friends than I thought … but alas, none of them will avail you."

Elizabeth gasped as she spied a familiar majestic tower of sails rising out of the sea behind them.  None hindered her as she rushed to seize the railing, every sense straining across the water between.

"The _Dauntless!"_

"Nor is that all.  Look away to starboard, my dear.  Uh, that's to the right, to you."

The look she shot towards him could have melted glass.  "I know what starboard is."

Yet words fled her grasp as she saw another well-known profile sailing from the sun, coming at a long diagonal to the _Dauntless_' course.  Black sails, black as fear, black as death and never so dear a sight, for she suddenly knew with clear certainty that Will was aboard the _Black Pearl_ and they were coming!  Hope sprang into her throat like a joyous shout, but she smothered it to watch with elation shining gloriously in her eyes.

"Run up the signals!" Biltmore roared.

Elizabeth spun to stare upwards as bright pennants ran aloft, snapping in the wind.  Only then did her gaze drop to see the third vessel, a great ship bristling with guns and menace that came straight to meet them, but the flag it bore was not the flag of a friend.

As if to himself Biltmore murmured, "A little assistance if you please, _Señor Capitan.  'Tis a most dreadful thing to have both pirates and the British Royal Navy invading your waters, is it not?"_

In growing alarm Elizabeth demanded, "What are you doing?  What are you _doing?"_

Yet Biltmore made no immediate answer.  His eyes narrowed as he watched for the Spaniard's response.  Moments later his lips curved in a hard, humorless smile.

"As you see, my dear," he said, "your pirate friends clearly lack intestinal fortitude.  And your navy friends … let us say they shall soon be very busy with the Spaniards, who are not famous for their good humor."

Her fingers clamped around the railing until the blood fled from them, but it was only by that desperate grip that she restrained the scream of angry despair rising within.  The _Pearl was turning … the black ship was turning away and making for the safety of the open sea.  Of course Jack Sparrow would not chance the guns of warships from two countries at once.  And as the Spanish vessel swept past to confront the _HMS Dauntless_ Elizabeth felt hope slip away, stolen on the wind to fill other sails._

"If harm comes to them," she said, "to ANY of them …."  She faced that terrible crimson mask, eyes blazing with all the fury in her heart.  "I will find a way to ruin you.  As I live, I swear it."

"As you live.  Which is entirely in my hands, is it not?"  He chuckled, and it was a sound like bones knocking together.

***

"Sparrow, confound you …."

There were much stronger words Norrington could have used, but there was after all the matter of military decorum to observe, plus a great deal of fast thinking which must be done.  It was now painfully clear why the _Black Pearl had revealed herself to drive the _Royal Venture_ towards the coast._

Even as he watched the black pirate ship was sheering away towards open water, apparently fleeing the appearance of the new warship.  Meanwhile, however, Sir John Biltmore held a course that would bring his ship directly past the Spaniard.  Behind Norrington lieutenants Gillette and Groves speculated aloud.

"Why did he want them to run _to that Spanish warship instead of away from it?"_

"I don't know," Groves replied, squinting with both sun and thought.  "What I'd like to know is _how he knew she'd do it!  After all, the __Royal Venture is a British vessel."_

Norrington's jaw tightened as he spotted the white-and-crimson _saltier_ cross on Biltmore's stern.

"Oh," said Gillette, obviously seeing the same flag.  "Why, she's flying false colors!"

"She certainly is," responded Groves.  "And these being Cuban waters, that leaves us in a bit of a pickle."

Those aboard the _Dauntless watched until the two other ships were within cannon shot of each other.  Through his glass Norrington observed another flicker of color, signal flags fluttering aboard one ship then the other.  They were too far for him to read, but the result was clear enough.  As the __Royal Venture sailed serenely north, the oncoming warship stood directly towards the _Dauntless_, white water frothing at her bow and the Burgundy Cross of Spain flying at her masthead._

Ere long she was close enough for the British ship to see new signal flags running up to flutter imperiously.  Then a single puff of smoke burst whitely at her bows.  The boom of a cannon reached the _Dauntless_ an instant later.

"Sir?"  Gillette popped up like a jack-in-the-box beside him, his fair face looking positively bleached.  "I think they're demanding that we heave-to!  They're probably going to want an explanation for why we're in Cuban waters."

Sure enough, a faint, hollow voice drifted across the water and in the bow of the Spanish ship Norrington could see someone shouting towards the _Dauntless_ through a speaking cone.  The distance was such and the accent was so heavy that not a word was intelligible, but behind the shouter stood another man, portly and resplendent in a uniform a-gleam with an absurd amount of gold trim.

"Why, that pirate planned for this very thing!" exclaimed Groves.  "Here we are detained, while Sparrow and his prize escape entirely unhindered."  The lieutenant's chiseled features brightened in an admiring and decidedly unprofessional smile.  "He is without a doubt the best pirate I've ever seen!"

With a sigh Norrington bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose.  This was going to be a very long morning.

***

Will watched anxiously from the _Pearl's quarterdeck as the _HMS Dauntless_ shrank astern, her tall sails slowing and gliding to seemingly merge with those of the Spanish warship.  Neither ship was paying any least heed to the fleeing __Black Pearl, which was a good thing, but he really did not wish Commodore Norrington any ill._

"They've both stopped," he said.  "I think maybe the Spanish ship is putting a boat in the water."  Frowning he added, "At least they're not shooting at each other."

"Don't worry, mate," Sparrow replied, flexing his fingers on the wheel.  "England and Spain aren't at war this year."  He turned his head to cast a fox-bright, gold-toothed grin over his shoulder.  "At least not yet.  How is the commodore's Spanish, anyway?"

As the day grew older there were two ships sailing with miles of sparkling ocean between them.  Far from the eyes of anybody's navy the _Black Pearl put on full canvas to fare her solitary way north past the eastern-most tip of Cuba.  Now lost to sight, but somewhere nearly hugging the shoreline, the _Royal Venture_ also made her way towards Sir John's estate and refuge at Baracoa._

However, the _Black Pearl was the fastest ship in the Caribbean, and she would be there first.  Waiting._

***

TBC …

**_AN:_**_ You may note I use the term "larboard" from time to time.  It is the older term for "port," the left-hand side of a ship.  I have chosen the device of using "larboard" for events aboard Norrington's very proper British navy ship, whilst leaving Jack et al with "port."  Why?  Beats me, guess I just like using both.  :-)___

**_P.S._**_  RogueAngel, oops, I guess I was channeling other writing for that line, wasn't I?  Unintentional, I assure you, but I guess I'll leave it as it is. *blush*_

**_P.S. # 2_**_: I'll try to get one more chapter posted before Christmas, for all of you, my loyal readers!_


	23. Chapter 23 Fight and Flight

**PIRATES OF THE **CARIBBEAN******: THE AFRICAN STAR**

**By ErinRua**

CHAPTER 23

Baracoa, Cuba held several honors, including that of being the first colony on the island, of being the first capital of Cuba, and also of being rather unhappily popular with raiding pirates for a number of years.  For that reason it had sensibly sprouted a number of forts to guard its precipitous shoreline, and for reason of the forts the only pirate ship currently in the region slid past under cover of night.

Thus it was that when the half-moon rose before a small bay north of Baracoa, upon the silvered waters sailed a great black ship.  Not a sound did she make; neither cry of voice nor whisper of wind in canvas.  Black as night.  Black as death.  She was ink poured before the gleaming face of the moon as straight towards the shore she came in slow, majestic grace.

Atop stone ramparts a watchman saw and his heart froze in his chest.  No light did he see on those grim decks, no movement of living men.  Just a black ghost ship gliding up the silver pathway of the moon, and he felt the weight of a lifetime's sins upon his soul.  His tongue clove to the roof of his mouth and only his shaking hand moved, tracing upon his breast the sign of the Cross.

Silent as night.  Silent as death.  Black sails stood broad and full and from them he was certain he felt unholy, invisible eyes.  Others still wakeful were drawn onto the walls and grounds of the _hacienda_ and they, too, found that terror bound their feet and they could only stare as the great ship passed.  Passed in that perfect, terrible silence, until by some unseen power it turned and glided back out into the night.

Probably it was a good thing those watching could not hear the shrilly-whispered conversation taking place on the _Pearl's dark decks._

"Are you sure this is the right place, Jack?"

"Will, what part of '_casa de Capitán Biltmore es una hora __del__ norte' don't you understand?"_

Silence.  Then:  "Your informant was also weeping and praying to the Virgin Mary and at least a half-dozen saints."

"Can I help it if Spaniards are spineless?"

"Jack, he was in a fishing boat.  We're in a gigantic black pirate ship."  
"Precisely.  He would 'ave given up the key to his sainted grandmother's jewelry chest if it would mean he kept his wretched life.  And look.  One hour later, 'ere we are!"

"You better hope this is the right place.  What exactly are we doing?"

"Terrifyin' people.  It's a marvelous tactic.  Does away with a whole lot of unnecessary fuss and bother."  Nimble fingers sketched some indefinable shape in the air between them, as gold teeth glinted by moonlight.  "Trust me, mate, I know what I'm doin'."

Behind them, the moon rose over empty water that suddenly seemed, to souls on the darkened land, much colder than a Caribbean night had any right to be. 

***

Wood grated dryly, the familiar sound of the outside panel moving which forewarned of visitors.  Eight sets of hollow eyes blinked dully at the rectangle of light that opened, at the dark shapes beyond.  The silent black man entered as always, woolly head bowed and eyes so blank as to seem almost blind.  In the passageway outside two burly sailors stood watchfully.  There would be no chances for escape attempts now.

The women moved only slightly as the slave stepped among them, drawing back feet and skirts in wary silence as he set down his burdens, a bucket of water, another of what could only loosely be termed food.  That done, he rose to a crouch to pick up their bucket of night soil.

"I give one chance."

Elizabeth started from her haze of misery to stare up at that low voice, at the bent dark figure now turning away.  She opened her mouth to cry questions - and swallowed the words unsaid.  It was with effort she averted her eyes from the man's departure, her hands clenched tightly in her lap.  Only when the door closed them into gloom and an odor of overcooked yams once more did she turn to the woman beside her.

"Bess," she whispered, "Did you hear?"

"Yes," was Bess' soft alto reply.  "I hear."

"What does it mean?"

Pallid light shone on dark features as Bess returned her gaze.  "I don' know.  But I t'ink we be ready, you an' me."

Jaw clenched in anxiety, Elizabeth hissed, "Yes, but what if it's a trick?"

"Den we be clever, eh?"  White teeth gleamed.

"How can we trust a darky?" came a sharp whisper from nearby.  "Who knows what he might do!"

"He is a slave," Elizabeth retorted.  "Just like we'll be, if we don't get ourselves out of this mess!"

"What about your pirate friends?" Sarah's small voice spoke.  "Aren't they still coming?"

She tightened her jaw to think that she truly could _not_ rely on Jack Sparrow or Will Turner.  But nonetheless Elizabeth said firmly, "We don't know what they are doing or even what happened to them.  We must make our own luck."

"They'll shoot us trying to escape," another woman said.  "Or worse."

"And what happens if we stay?"  Elizabeth shot back.  "If chance comes, we must take it!"

"Promise me?" said Sarah thinly, and her round face was a pale orb in the shadows.  "If you get away … you'll find help for us?  Somehow?"

"You'll come with us, of course!"

"No …" The girl's fingers plucked at the fabric at her plump bosom like the fluttering of wounded birds.  "I can't swim … I'm not a good runner.  I'm terrified of snakes and the things in the jungle… I'd only get you caught."  She took a breath before adding, "And someone has to get out.  Someone has to tell about us.  Someone has to tell the world what this man is doing!"

Murmurs of assent rippled from the other women, and one said, eyes glinting in the shadows, "Aye.  If any of us escapes, if it can't be me, all I ask is that you bring down whatever it takes to blow this godless bastard to kingdom come!"

"Just promise me?"  Sarah looked up and her eyes were two luminous pools.  "Please?"

"Oh, Sarah …."  Elizabeth found herself without words as she reached to clasp the girl's hand.  Through a throat that threatened to squeeze itself shut, she whispered, "I promise."

They were running out of time.  They were running out of time, and soon the only chances left would be last chances.

***

"I WANT ANSWERS!" thundered Biltmore, bright sun casting his shadow before him as he strode like a battleship down the gangplank to the quay below.  "Is there no one who can speak a coherent sentence?"

Of the men gathered in various postures of alarm and uncertainty, only a muttered phrase was heard, "_Patrón, era la nave del Diablo.…."_

"Yes, yes, you saw the Devil's ship, but I am the devil you need fear!  Witherspoon, where ARE you!"

"Here, sir!"

A panting rush of feet on stone brought a lanky man in loose shirt and trousers pelting towards him, with a musket in his hand and his face flushed with exertion.  He staggered to a halt, gasping, and tried to draw himself to a shabby semblance of attention under Sir John's furious gaze.

"You will explain to me," Biltmore said very deliberately, "Just what these people are blathering about and WHY I arrived to find my men cowering behind the walls armed as if for invasion by the entire French Navy!  I have a cargo to unload and work to be done!"

The Adam's apple slid spastically up and down the man's throat.  "It was the ship, sir!  Black it was, not a light or sound to be seen and it sailed right in 'ere."

Biltmore loomed over the man in any case, and he shifted his bulk so that his gold-threaded lapels were mere inches from Witherspoon's flushed face.  "What … ship?"

"I don't know sir!  God's truth, I don't!  It was black -." Witherspoon glanced swiftly aside to see nodding agreement from the others.  "Even the sails were black.  We couldn't see no name, sir.  It was the middle of the night."  
"And just what did this devil's ship … do?"

"Ah …" Witherspoon's brow furrowed in consternation.  "Nothin', sir!"

"Nothing."

Witherspoon swallowed again.  "It just sort of sat there.  Watchin', like."

Exhaling a deep breath that rumbled in his chest, Biltmore turned and swept his eyes over the men nearby.  Beside the quay the _Royal Venture now stood at her moorings, tall against a backdrop of steep jungle-clad hillsides that surrounded the bay.  Overlooking the harbor rose the stout walls of his _hacienda_, sunshine painting red tile roofs brightly against the green hills._

Gathering the shreds of his courage, Witherspoon asked, "'ave you 'eard of such a ship, sir?"

Rage rose like greasy smoke within, but Biltmore dared not answer.  He dared not name the foe that had so violated his sanctuary, for he knew too well what greater terror the name of the _Black Pearl would provoke._

"I do," he replied crisply.  "But you need not concern yourself with it.  We are more than a match for them."  His gaze lifted and a grim smile played over his features.  "We'll simply blow them to kindling should they come again."

Witherspoon looked as well and blinked in renewed confidence, for atop the walls protruded the black, deadly muzzles of cannon.  "Oh, aye, I s'pose we could."

"Minions," Biltmore grumbled as he shouldered past Witherspoon.  "You would think gold could purchase at least an ounce or two of common sense."  Turning his attention to the _Royal Venture_ looming beside them, he shouted, "Mister Fry!  Our special cargo first."

"Aye, sir," drifted the reply from the ship's decks.

Nodding, Biltmore smote his hands together and let his attention wander over the _Royal Venture and up towards the sails that sailors tightly furled high above._

"All is not lost," he murmured.  "I still have a market in Havana, and I can send a fast messenger to my clients in Port Paix.  And of course the auction …."  He turned away with a satisfied smile that curved his mouth, but never warmed his eyes.

Eight frightened faces blanched in the pallid light of the doorway.  They had felt the settling in the ship's motion when it left the open sea and entered harbor, and felt the slowing and final bump as it came to rest.  Every heart beat fast and wide eyes reflected the sky as four of Biltmore's men herded the women on deck.  Green hills Elizabeth saw, blinking her suddenly-stinging eyes before the onslaught of the sun.  Green hills, brilliant water, a busy dock of wood and stone, and walls upon the hillside above that seemed to crouch, waiting.

"We're here," Sarah breathed, and a sigh of fear seemed to whisper among the others.

Her chest suddenly feeling too tight to take in air, Elizabeth clenched her teeth as she fought rising panic.  Glancing aside she tried to take courage from dark Bess' expression of blank stoicism.  As a nudge from behind propelled her into motion she lifted her chin in the last tatters of defiance.

"LOOK OUT! - What's he doing? - Get him down from there!"

The tangle of shouts shocked every heart within hearing, and Elizabeth glimpsed Biltmore's heavy form spinning on the dock to stare up -.  She looked and gasped in horror as a wild scream soared out across the water.

"The darky's gone mad!  He's got fire! Get him down, get him down!" voices cried, but she had eyes only for the figure clinging like some queer monkey in the rigging overhead.

On the quay Biltmore bellowed with all his strength, "SIM, you nap-headed idiot, get down this instant!  Get DOWN, I say, or I'll flay the meat right off your bones!"

But the silent black slave who had seemed little more than a ghost for so long did not heed.  Clinging precariously he gave out another lunatic yowl, as he waved a smoking torch just below one of the newly-furled sails.  The howl then broke to words, a queer gibbering tongue that flashed white teeth and seemed filled with condemnation.

"Now!" hissed Bess and Elizabeth stared in shock.

"What?"

Bess' black eyes blazed inches from her own.  "Here our chance - now!"

"Shoot him down from there!  Shoot him!  SIM!  You infernal cursed ape!"

Biltmore was plunging up the gangplank and there was no time to think, no time to hesitate, no time to plan.  Elizabeth flung a desperate glance at Sarah, at the others and then she spun and ran.  Behind her she heard shrieks and shouts and the popping of musket fire.  Without thought she leaped - over the side to plummet into the brilliant green water below.

Impact thundered in her ears and in her bones as the waves closed over her head.  Sound went dead and knives of water drove into her sinuses.  Desperately she thrashed against the suddenly-sodden weight of her clothes.  Seeing flaring sunlight above she kicked towards it to burst gasping into air.  Above the choking splash of her own struggles she saw a sudden chaos of smoke and sputtering flame against blue sky, but there was no time to watch.  She struck out desperately, stroke and stroke again.  Yet as she turned she carried one last image - a dark form plunging with sickening suddenness from the rigging of the _Royal Venture._

She swam towards green; that was all she knew.  Towards green while fighting with every stroke against the weight of saturated linen, even while some dim part of her mind realized she would be drowned already if she still wore the heavy, layered dress of her usual custom.  Green trees and white sand and suddenly she struck bottom, floundering as her feet dug into the sand and she rose from sucking waves that did not want to let her go.  She staggered heavily as sea and sand fought for which would win her, but she drove herself on with but a single thought: live.

A hard hand seized her arm and she spun gasping, but it was Bess, dark and dripping and keen as a hawk.  "Come."

There was no time, for voices shouted and the slave ship smoldered and men were running hard around the curve of the cove to reach them.  Elizabeth wheeled and ran - and fell sprawling.  Up she was in an instant, smothering a curse that would have shocked her father and amused Jack Sparrow to no end.  With desperate haste she seized her skirts and knotted them high in one hand - then in a flash of legs the two women were gone, swallowed into the jungle's green breast.

How far they ran she did not know, could not tell.  Only that her lungs burned and her feet, which had not gone bare since she was a very small girl, burned with gashing pain that shocked the threat of tears to her eyes with every desperate leap.  And somehow she had thrown her entire faith into a black woman - possibly even a slave - whom she barely knew.  Before her Bess' lean form leaped like a hound, bare feet flashing as if impervious to rock and stone ever higher into the green-dark hills.  The voices still rang out, closer now and closer.

"No -."

The word jerked through clenched teeth as Elizabeth hurled herself up a staircase of twisted tree roots.  Sim - that had been his name, after all this time - Sim had bought their freedom with his life.  They could not fail, could not let Biltmore turn loss and sacrifice to bitter naught.

Yet the voices through the trees below seemed to bark like hounds, for two underfed, barefoot, storm-battered women could not truly outrun strong men.  Roots became stones and stones became near-cliffs as upwards they clambered through slapping branches, each breath coming in rags of fire.

"- not long now."

"This way!"

"- for this much trouble -."

Fragments of men's voices battered like shards of despair, and Elizabeth caught herself on a jagged outcrop to glance down.  Green leaves and vines and broken hillside were all she saw, but heavy smashing sounded below.  She heaved herself another step and rock collapsed underfoot, dropping her sprawling and sliding until frantic fingers seized a sturdy branch.  Jerked to a halt, she gasped sharply at her near-fall, but pulled herself into motion once more.  Then she halted.

"Wait!" she hissed, and above her Bess stopped.  Elizabeth's brown eyes took fire as she whispered fiercely, "I know how to stop them - or at least slow them down!"

Upwards through tangled undergrowth four men scrambled and puffed and swore.  The man in front wielded a machete, whacking at clutching vines as the sweat ran in dirty rivulets down his face.  Then he heard a sudden thud and looked up.  The thud became cracking, the cracking became crashing and he just had time to shout before a deluge of bounding stones knocked him from sight.

Amongst the rocky outcroppings above, Elizabeth and Bess listened as the whacking progress of their rock fall died away.  They heard no further sounds.

"We have to keep moving," she said and move they did.

Yet a cold realization gripped Elizabeth's heart as the women pushed their way upwards into the jungle hills.  They were free, yes.  But they were alone and without friends on a great Spanish island where they did not even speak the language.

***

TBC …

**_AN:_**_ I see I have picked up some new reviewers since my last post - Thank you for your comments, mates!  Praise is welcome, honest critique is adored.  I am pleased and honored to hear from you.  :-)_

_This will be my last post before Christmas, so from my house to yours I wish you all the very best.  May your friends be many, your blessings plentiful, and may health and good fortune attend you and yours. Live well, laugh often!_


	24. Chapter 24 Cause

**PIRATES OF THE **CARIBBEAN******: THE AFRICAN STAR**

**By ErinRua**

CHAPTER 24

On the north side of the bay fronting Sir John Biltmore's domain stood a high headland, a bony crown of rock thickly clad in jungle growth.  Few men ever went there, for it was a miserable climb in jungle heat, and fewer yet dreamed of any reason to go where only birds and lizards roosted.  Thus it was that no human eyes noted a rustling among the trees or the two dark heads that peered from beneath the greenery at the crest of the ridge.

"What do you see?"

"Steady, Will, let a man get 'is bearin's."

From a higher vantage one might have seen over the ridge to what lay behind the two spies.  A long, sweaty climb, a tiny boat on a beach far below and, nearly lost in the haze up the coastline, was the dim silhouette of a ship riding at anchor.

Belly-down on a steeply dropping overgrown ledge, Jack Sparrow and Will Turner currently enjoyed a commanding view of Biltmore's Cuban estate across the harbor.  The blue-green waters of the bay were so clear they could see nature's sculpting of the sea bottom and the beach curving in a long pale crescent.  At the head of the bay stood Sir John's holdings, a stone quay jutting out from the shore, low buildings at the waterfront, and overlooking it all loomed a walled _hacienda built in the Spanish style.  Its pale walls and red tile roof appeared sleepy beneath the midday sun, as did the lush grove of oranges and lemons growing greenly alongside._

Nonetheless, there was activity below, as ant-like figures of men freighted goods down the quay from the single ship moored there.

"Ah, she's unloadin'," murmured Jack.  The end of his looking glass shifted slowly, tracking the movement of bales, boxes and bundles from ship to shore.

"Do you see any -?"

Will bit off his sentence as he realized how foolish it was, but Jack merely answered, glass still to his eye, "Most likely your lass was first off the ship, along with any others he 'as.  Mustn't leave 'em in the hands of the unwashed, of course."

With a smothered sigh Will settled onto his elbows and tried to school himself to patience as he watched that distant scene of industry.  Elizabeth was there, just there, so close he could nearly shout and be heard … but she was completely out of his reach.  He found himself foolishly wishing he could beam his thought through walls and tile roofs to reach her heart, and let her know that he was here and would not fail her.

"Hello."  Jack lowered the glass to scowl towards the harbor then ducked his head to peer through the glass again.  "Appears they've had a fire in the riggin'."

"A fire?"

"See for yourself.  Mains'l."

Will took the glass and fumbled a moment as the narrow telescopic view swept dizzily across blank water, before orienting himself on the _Royal Venture_.  Sure enough, men were hanging in the lower yards and apparently cutting down the ragged remnants of a badly-singed sail.

"Strange."  Frowning as he scanned the glass further into Biltmore's holdings, Will asked, "How could that happen, without them being in a battle?"

"Given Elizabeth's penchant for burnin' rum to get attention, maybe she tried this time for a whole ship!"

Will shoved the glass back into Sparrow's hands rather more forcefully than was needed.  "Not funny, Jack."

With a shrug Sparrow replied, "Wasn't funny when she burned the rum, either.  Now, let's see what else there is to see."

Pointing, Will noted, "They seem to be taking things up into the estate proper, rather than using the warehouse down there on the water."

"Aye."  Sparrow's tone was distracted as he focused the glass on movements far below.  "None like a thief to fear other thieves."

"Then to get at …" There was no polite word for plundering, so Will simply said, "What we want, we'll have to attack in force, right?"

Sparrow let his hands drop and bowed his shaggy head with a forbearing sigh.  "No, boy.  We do not."  Casting a sideways look at his young comrade, he said, "We sneak up, we infiltrate Sir John's boudoir and scare the bejeezus out of anyone who gets in our way.  Then after 'e wets himself and pleads for 'is miserable life - which it's entirely up to you whether we grant it - we sneak away again, with my diamond and your bonny lass.  Savvy?"

Lowering his head with a soft, chagrined chuckle Will replied, "Aye."

"Now …" Jack narrowed his eyes and lightly tapped the eyepiece of his glass against his chin.  "A bit of conniving …"

Lifting one eyebrow, Will said, "We could always storm the gate, blow it to bits and march right in."

"Will …"

"Well, you said you wanted to scare them.  If it was done at night, I think that would be positively petrifying."

Sparrow dipped his chin towards his shoulder to peer at Will once more.  "It 'as to be your Protestant upbringin'."

"What?"

"We do not _storm anything, mate.  That's for Royal Marines and storybook heroes, not pirates."_

Will's dark brows lowered into a straight line.  "Are you looking at that place, Jack?  The walls must be twenty feet high and six feet thick.  The only weakness is that main gate, which is wood.  Look."

The young blacksmith leaned closer to Jack's shoulder and stretched a long arm out into the sunlight.  "The gate is two doors of some heavy wood, possibly pine or less likely oak, strapped in beaten iron and each hung on four heavy hinges.  Undoubtedly there is a bar within which helps support the gate when closed."  His fingers continued to sketch shapes in the air.  "I believe that explosives placed beneath the hinges to either side of the frame should create enough stress that the hardware of the gate simply gives way.  It's meant to hold a static, steady bearing weight, not a sudden force from below."

Jack was still staring at him with blank black eyes, and Will's tone became defensive.  "It's not as if we can go up and ring the bell!"

A slow smile began to creep across Sparrow's dark face until gold teeth glinted in the sun, and he collapsed his glass with a snap.  "Actually, I think ringin' the bell is precisely what we should do.  A very … big … ring."

***

"I can't beLIEVE I'm doing this," Elizabeth hissed, grimacing as she swiped what felt like some crawling thing from her ear.

Beside her Bess made no sound, her dark face expressionless while she peered through the leaves between them and sunlight.  The sun was many hours older than when they had made their escape, its fiery orb now teetering perhaps two fingers above the mountainous western skyline.  Now the two fugitives crept amongst thickets and vines within the very shadow of Sir John Biltmore's estate.

What they had found was a collection of shanties and shacks that crouched in a clearing not far behind the walled hacienda.  They breathed the rich fragrance of nearby citrus groves as they studied structures that were built of little more than scrap lumber and palm leaves.  In the dirt yards and lane chickens pecked while goats and pigs snuffled about.  What inhabitants the fugitives had seen thus far were brown, dowdy-looking women and a few naked children, and one fat man sprawled in the sun sound asleep.  Elizabeth could only guess that the rest of the men must have been away at their employments elsewhere on Biltmore's holdings.  They had circled the hamlet carefully under cover of the jungle until no one was in sight.  The ramshackle building closest was clearly a laundry, with cut wood stacked along one side and great copper wash tubs standing in the yard.  At the edge of the trees were strung long lines gently waving many hues of clothing, and there Elizabeth and Bess fixed their attention.

Sighing, Elizabeth batted a dangling leaf aside and propped her chin in her hand.  "Perhaps the red skirt," she whispered.  "I've already done nearly every unladylike thing imaginable.  I don't see why I shouldn't wear red."

Bess glanced at her, eyes twinkling.  "I tink dat one for you," she whispered, and pointed to a rippling swath of material that blazed in fiery hues of orange, yellow, black and brown, all splashed in curious patterns as if applied by wooden blocks.  Elizabeth looked and pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle.  Truly it was a mad world, when two women could discuss dresses to wear, while at the same time planning to steal them from a clothes line.

"Today I become a thief," Elizabeth ruefully whispered. "If Jack Sparrow could only see me, now."

There was no time to waste, however, and after a final glance to assure no witnesses, they rose from hiding and slipped forward.  An instant later Elizabeth hissed and hopped on one foot, clutching Bess' shoulder for support.  Giving an apologetic glance she let go and hobbled gingerly onto the hard earth of the clearing.  It had been relatively easier going on the softer loam of the jungle, but the simple fact was that Elizabeth's unshod feet were nearly afire with raw pain.  She swallowed hard and tried not to think about that, about being recaptured and sent back to slavery simply because she was too genteel and well-bred to have gone barefoot past the age of four.

The clean scent of sun-dried laundry surrounded them in a moment and Elizabeth hastily seized warm cloth in both hands as her heart hammered in her teeth.  With a yank she freed the fire-and-coals colored peasant skirt to fall over her arm and with another yank freed a chemise surely designed for a woman half again her girth.  However, beggars - or thieves - could not be choosers and she wished only that a pair of shoes was also available for stealing.  Bess likewise seized an armful of brown and blue - and then she froze, her black eyes staring through and past Elizabeth.

Elizabeth's tongue suddenly cleaved to the roof of her mouth as she slowly turned.  There, at the back corner of the laundry hut, stood a round brown woman with a face expressionless as dough and blank brown eyes, staring at them.

Somewhere beyond the shack a rooster crowed a foolish pealing cry, and further away a child wailed briefly and was still.  The brown woman said nothing, did nothing, but simply looked at the two intruders, sunlight gleaming on jet black hair cut knife-straight above her brows.  Not daring to speak, Elizabeth stepped carefully, painfully backwards to stand beside Bess, her stolen garments clutched to her chest.  And then … the woman simply bowed her head, turned and walked into the laundry hut and out of sight.

"Hurry!"

Elizabeth reached back to make sure Bess was also moving, the two of them crouching and stumbling as they tried to look all directions at once, backing towards the shelter of the jungle.  She glanced at the trees, then towards the laundry, and the brown woman had reappeared.

This time she carried something gathered at her breast, and to their shock she began padding towards them with her dark head bowed.  The escapees stopped, panicked breath rasping like overheated cotton in their lungs.

Without a sound the woman shuffled to them, and only when right before them did she lift her head.  Sloe-brown eyes blank as buttons regarded them, but she held out her burden as if in offering.  From her pudgy fingers dangled a drinking gourd on a cord, two pairs of palm-leaf sandals, and a rather grey and greasy looking wad of bundled cloth.

In befuddlement Elizabeth stared, then opened her arms ever so wary of betrayal to accept the woman's odd gifts.  Bess' black fingers appeared to take one pair of sandals; the rest Elizabeth clutched together with her bundle of stolen clothing.

"Thank you," she whispered, and wished she knew how to see the heart behind that plain, round face.

Whether the brown woman understood the words or not, she nodded then simply trundled away, back to her laundry or whatever other drudgery composed her life.  Behind her, the two escapees fled.

Several minutes later Elizabeth and Bess crouched deep amidst thick greenery as they hastily donned the sandals and peered into the grey bundle of rags.  In Bess' black hands the cloth opened to reveal a partially-eaten chunk of pale cheese, two fat oranges, three wizened little peppers and three flat, rounded pieces of some unleavened bread.  The two runaways shared wry glances: obviously the remains of the brown woman's lunch.  However, it was the only food they had.

"We should save this," Elizabeth whispered, and Bess nodded, folding the cloth once more.  Pondering a moment, finger tapping her lip, Elizabeth said, "We saw them put Sarah and the others in that stable.  I think it would be safe to presume that is where he keeps his captives, the way it was boarded up, so there may well be others in there, also."

Bess' silent glance was her only reply, and the governor's daughter continued, "What is needed is a chance to get to that stable undetected.  In the small hours of the morning, perhaps.  With any luck the guards will be few and sleepy."  Then with a weary sigh she added, "And we will need ever so much luck.  Bess, I don't know how we'll do this."

"Wait an' watch, eh?" came Bess' alto whisper.

"Yes."  In their stained and tattered state, Elizabeth's elegant face was the only thing remaining about her that could still speak of noble breeding, but greenish sunlight glinted in her eyes.  "We certainly are not through here."

Bess' teeth showed astonishingly white as she wagged a black-and-pink finger playfully.  "Dat opportune moment."

Astonished, Elizabeth almost laughed aloud.  It seemed years ago she had spoken those words and somehow it pleased her that Bess had heard and remembered.

Lifting her chin to a proud angle, her eyes twinkled as she replied, "Absolutely."

Within seconds Elizabeth slung the gourd over her shoulder and she and Bess vanished.  Together they slipped like deer into the green silent hills of Cuba's eastern shores.

***

The moon had yet to rise above the headland when a small, solitary boat appeared on the bay under a single sail.  Had any been near to scrutinize they might have recognized her for a ship's boat, but she did not belong to the malodorous vessel that stood moored in dark silence at the quay.  Nor did any voice speak to challenge her.

In moments the little boat grounded on the beach and two figures sprang ashore.

"Wait!" hissed one, and the first turned impatiently.  A grin glinted by starlight as the voice continued, "Remember, love, I'm the master 'ere."

"In your dreams!" spat a feminine reply.

However, the owner of the second voice allowed her companion to take her by the arm and steer her away from the water.  They were scarce above the high tide mark when a dark figure stepped from the shadows.

"_Alto!  ¿Adónde usted va?"_

"Wot's that?"  Sparrow halted as ordered and pivoted to peer at the man, but instead of identifying himself, he swayed forward with his arms opening in a wide, cheerful gesture of welcome.  "Oh, 'ello, mate!  Say, is this Havana?  I've been lookin' everywhere tryin' to find Havana.  Dreadful thing, really, I seem to have lost my -."

By then he was in arm's reach and a meaty thud dropped the sentry to an insensible heap.  Bending quickly Jack poked his fingers in the man's pockets - found nothing - and then he tugged the rough wool from about the downed man's shoulders.  A swish of fabric and Sparrow wore a peasant's ragged _serape_ draped over his waistcoat, neatly concealing his pistol and cutlass.

"What do you think, love?" Under Anamaria's eye he struck a foppish pose.  "Is it me?"

She snorted in lieu of answer and turned away.  In moments the feet of two intruders crunched gravel up the curving lane towards the gate.  One of them sauntered nearly as if drunk, swinging one arm to the mumbled tune that he attempted to carry.

"We pillage, we plunder, we rifle, and loot: Drink up, me 'earties, yo ho! …  Dum dah dah dum …. And really bad eggs … I say, 'ello up there!  Knock-knock, comp'ny's 'ere!"

Sure enough, a sentry had heard their approach.  Torchlight came into view as the man peered from the wall towards the dark figures on the road below.

"_Hola__! _¿Quién es?_"_

"Speak English, man - I can't get my tongue around that heathen gibberish!"

The query was repeated with clarity, but considerably less tact.  "Who are you and wot the devil do ye want?"

"Much better."  Sparrow rocked back on his heels to beam a smile up towards the sentry's silhouette.  "I 'ave …." His hands described an abstract in the air.  "What you might call a business proposition for your master."

"Get off with you, ye sot!  We don't 'ave time for the likes o' you."

"Not for me, per'aps …" Still grinning, Jack reached for his companion - and seized the arm she attempted to jerk from his grasp.  "'Ere, none of that, missy."  With a flourish he swept the dilapidated hat from her head, and as her dark hair fell free the man above made a startled sound.  "But maybe for a pretty poppet such as this, ay?"

Jack's grin tightened as Anamaria yanked in his hand again and shot him a look that could have melted lead.  Forcing his smile back in place, he added, "She's just a bit of a hellion.  But as a man who 'ears things …."  Sparrow pressed Anamaria's hat to his breast.  "I've 'eard it said that your master 'as a special market for such as her."

"Don't know what you're talkin' about," growled the voice from above.

"Of course you don't.  A man as magnificently obtuse as your self 'as other applications in life.  But -."  Jack cheerfully flung Anamaria's hat into the darkness and clamped his hand under her chin, physically directing her venomous glare upwards, side-by-side with his oily smile.  "In these lovely veins flows the blood of African chiefs, delectably mingled with the bluer strains French nobility."  His eyes widened enticingly.  "They say she's even related to some Louis or other."

The man lifted his torch as he peered down at the oddity of a pretty albeit scowling woman dressed in a man's trousers and shirt.  "Why you want to get rid of her?"

Immediately Sparrow recoiled with a look of horror.  "Great Scott, man, I'm afraid to fall asleep around this woman!"  Leaning forward again, he drew his fingers daintily to his chest to add in boozy confidence, "And she 'as this fixation with feathers and blue paint!  Very disturbin'.  Took me forever to wean her off the red paint."

Somewhere beyond sight a voice cried out in query, and the sentry turned to rattle a reply in Spanish.  There was a long silence as the torchlight wavered atop the wall.  Moments later another man appeared, and looked over the wall.

"You woman, eh?" he asked in accented English.

"Paid for with my gold, I reckon that makes 'er mine."

"Why she have clothes like _un muchacho?"_

"Use your 'ead, mate.  A man comes 'ere on secret business, the whole idea is to keep it secret.  It would hardly be secret if I sailed around with 'er in skirts and petticoats, now would it?"

A pause, then: "_Un momento."_

The torch and both men vanished.  Instantly Anamaria seized the front of Jack's _serape_ and jerked him towards her.

"This better work!" she hissed.  "Because if we live through this, I swear I'm gonna kill you!"

"Relax, love."  Maintaining his smile with some difficulty, Jack pried her fingers loose.  "I've got it all worked out."

Before she could answer beyond a dangerous narrowing of her eyes, the gate facing them thunked heavily and began to sway inwards.  Torches blazed within and a shadowy figure spoke.

"Come on.  _El Patrón_ say he see you."

***

TBC …

**_AN:_**_ Yes, I survived the holiday!  I hope everyone was blessed with a joyous and bountiful season, whatever faith or celebrations you may embrace._

_Not a lot else to add, other than more profuse thanks for the kindness of my readers!!  If I can paint images with words that play clearly in your imagination, then I have done precisely what I set out to do.  Joy!  Lilitaliandragon, you are correct that __Elizabeth__ was barefoot on the island with Jack.  Hmm, well, then maybe we can just say that __Elizabeth__ had not gone running about in the hills and woods barefoot since she was a little girl.  Yeah, maybe that's it.  I hope.  *G* And to my new-come readers, if you have gotten this far I hope the story continues to please you.  Many thanks to everyone!_


	25. Chapter 25 And Effect

**PIRATES OF THE **CARIBBEAN******: THE AFRICAN STAR**

**By ErinRua**

CHAPTER 25

Illuminated only by the dull silver of starlight and a scattering of torches and lanterns, the manor house of Sir John Biltmore was impressive even in the dark.  A sprawling Spanish courtyard paved in smooth stone was centered by a musical fountain, and everywhere windows gleamed and arched doorways opened darkly to mysterious corridors.  The far side of the yard was faced by a long low building, obviously a stable, which was large enough to befit a prince's stud.  As they walked Jack saw other buildings as well, but what they were could not be made out.  The house itself rambled along two sides of the spacious courtyard, the center portion rising three stories tall with high-arched cathedral windows.  From somewhere wafted a sweet perfume of jasmine, mingled with the bracing fragrance of citrus.  

What Sparrow observed, while pretending not to observe, was the outer walls themselves.  They were every bit as formidable as his and Will's long-distance scout had suggested that day.  However, he hid a faint smile while noting that the guards were few and the black cannons on top were tied down and unmanned, with no sign that crews were ever appointed to them.  Little more than glorified garden ornaments, as it were.  In all, it appeared most of Biltmore's men and crew were already gone to their night's rest.

Keeping his face forward, Jack simply said, "Lovely place you 'ave 'ere.  I think the Moors' influence on architecture should be expanded to more of the civilized world, don't you?  The British are so unimaginative in matters of line and form."

Their escorts made no reply, white trousers whispering as they paced across the courtyard.  Lanterns glowed to either side of a carved door and there they stopped.  One of the men rapped sharply.

A moment, then a voice spoke strongly from within.  "Come."

It seemed uncertain whether they were guests or prisoners, as the two guards urged Sparrow and Anamaria inside.  They found themselves facing a spacious, warmly-lit room with stuccoed walls and heavy beams across the ceiling, centered by a long, polished table framed in empty chairs.  At the far end a small fire danced cheerfully in a hearth adorned by glowing candlesticks that reflected in various pieces of silver plate.

The welcome of that room, however, was jolted sharply by the myriad grotesque faces adorning the walls.  Primitive masks they seemed, carved of strange dark woods and adorned with brilliant paints or pieces of fiber and hair.  Some stared blankly with black holes for eyes, some leered in contorted expressions that defied name, and some seemed frozen in silent, endless screams.

Beneath those macabre gazes a tall, strong-looking man stood before the hearth in a long, green silk smoking jacket. 

"These were the two at the gate, sir," one guard said.

The big man took a step to face them and the impact of that predatory gaze stiffened Sparrow's spine instantly.  Under Jack's hand Anamaria froze and her eyes were black pools.  This could only be Sir John himself.

"Ah, your lordship!"  Sparrow pasted on his most obsequious smile and swept into the room - or as sweeping as he could move, whilst dragging a rigid Anamaria by one arm.  "Just the man I want to see!  I 'ave a business proposition, just a little one - well, actually middlin' sized, as you can see, but -."

"Who in the devil's name are you?"

That frigid tone could have cut glass and Jack jerked to a halt, eyes wide and astonished.  "Oh, beggin' your pardon.  I do 'ope this isn't a bad time."  Gold teeth and dangling beads winked by lantern light.  "I'm nobody, really, but if you must 'ave a name, Jack Turner will do.  Forgive the late hour, but prudence and discretion are words to live by, if a man wishes to keep his business _as_ his business, ay?"

Biltmore paced one, then two slow strides forward, his cold gaze taking in Jack item for item, from the beads in his tangled hair to the tattered sash at his waist, to the cavalier's boots on his feet and back to his face again.

"What sort of business do you purport yourself to be in?"

"I am what you might call a discerning gentleman."  With a wise grin, Jack pressed a hand to his chest and enunciated, "I deal in the most profitable venture of the moment."

"I see.  A smuggler.  Or perhaps a mad gypsy."  Biltmore lifted his gaze and flicked a brief gesture that dismissed the guards from the room.  His attention again on Sparrow and Anamaria, he said, "You have exactly one minute to convince me why I should not have you shot."

"For wot?"

A smile devoid of humor curved Biltmore's lips.  "Because I want to.  Or trespassing, if you prefer."

"Ah."  Jack tapped a finger to his chin.  "Right.  A man who likes to come straight to the point.  I can respect that.  Commendable, really.  Well, then." He seized Anamaria by both shoulders and bodily shoved her to stand before him.  Grinning beside her ear he said, "I 'ave this pretty strumpet 'ere and I'm 'opin' we could come to an accord whereby you would profitably and for a pretty sum take 'er off me 'ands."

"I see.  You propose a sale."  The slave ship captain stepped easily to a sideboard, where a bottle and several silver cups stood glittering between two ornate wall lamps.

~~ _Beyond the lighted room a rising half-moon dimmed the stars as it poured shimmering silver upon the ocean's breast.  Warm and still was the night outside, until movement stirred beyond the headlands of the bay.  Then upon the ever-shifting waters a tall silhouette appeared, silent as fate and black as fear. ~~_

Picking up the bottle Biltmore said, "In what way is she any different from any other darky wench I might pick up anywhere in these islands?  At least they would be properly attired."

"Oh, but that's just it!  She's not from these islands."  Grinning foolishly Sparrow minced about Anamaria touching her hair, her sleeves, the curve of her shoulder while she stood stiff and sullen.  "She's the daughter of an Aztec princess and an African prince.  Her father was Cortez's personal manservant and her mother was a prisoner taken 'ostage along with chests of gold from the Aztec king.  Cortez's servant saved 'is life during an uprisin', y' see, and for 'is loyalty 'e was awarded their royal lady prisoner.  And thus was born …" Jack played his fingers through her hair and let it fall to one shoulder.  "This lovely creature."

_~~ Neither sound nor light marked the black ship, as inbound she turned, riding her own shadow like an inky carpet upon the sea.  Ever closer she came, dark sails seeming to widen into dreadful wings. ~~_

"Mm."  Biltmore bent his attention to carefully pouring wine into one of the cups, lamplight shimmering in the crimson fluid.  He did not offer any to his guests.  "And I suppose this outrageous tale translates into an exorbitant asking price for the wench?"

Jack scrunched his face into a wounded look.  "Of course not!  A discerning gentleman such as yourself knows quality when 'e sees it.  I ask no more than any right-thinkin' man would wish to gain in an equitable transaction of this sort."

~~ _Atop stone walls feet pattered in desperate haste, the jingle of muskets and rasp of harsh breathing marking the awareness of those on shore.  Voices hissed frantic queries, for it seemed all were afraid to break the fey silence, but fear crackled like the electricity before a storm. ~~_

"There is one factor I can't help but consider … Mister Turner."  Biltmore turned with the wine cup in his hand and looked at Jack.  "I have a small army at my command, and you have … a _serape_.  What is to stop me from simply shooting you and taking the woman?"

Sparrow's black eyes grew large and his mouth pursed thoughtfully.  "Well, if you put it that way, nothing, really."

The door burst in with a bang.  "Sir!" cried a sentry.  "That ship is back!  It's here!"

"Except that," Jack added, and grinned like an impudent boy.

In the next instant Anamaria bashed the henchman with a chair, Jack's hands vanished beneath his _serape, Biltmore's right hand dove to the breast of his waistcoat and the henchman hit the floor out cold._

"I wouldn't do that, mate," Jack said gently, and his eyes were bright as he regarded Biltmore over the barrel of his boarding pistol.  "You'd just get an ugly 'ole in that lovely coat."

The big man froze with his right hand half-drawn from his waistcoat, the bulge of his fist and pistol distorting the silk of his smoking jacket.  His gaze burned as it flicked from Sparrow to Anamaria - who hastily jerked a second handgun from beneath Jack's _serape_ and cocked and aimed it.

In clipped tones Biltmore said, "What do you possibly think to accomplish?  Your friends are out _there_, Jack Sparrow - oh yes, a little bird told me of you - and you are in here.  You'll never get out alive."

"Ah, well."  Jack shrugged merrily.  "Call me a gamblin' man.  And it's _Captain Jack Sparrow, if you please.  Now let's do be sensible, ay?"  The barrel of the pistol steadied.  "We'll just take a little walk, you'll tell your men to lay down their arms, and all will be right in the world."_

~~ _Out on the walls heavy wheels grumbled as cannons were drawn back and men scrabbled to ready the guns for firing.  Years it had been since any need had arisen for defense and frightened hands fumbled with cartridges and rammers. ~~_

Hatred was an acid that corroded any comeliness from Biltmore's features and raised an unhealthy flush in his cheeks.  Nonetheless he carefully withdrew the smaller pistol from his breast, lowered it to the sideboard and turned with both hands held empty.

"You'll be shot the moment you step out the door."

"Mate, you really do 'ave a morbid fascination with shootin' people."  Jack cocked his head and added cheekily, "Now me, I'd much rather 'ave you alive to enjoy me little bit of revenge."

"Revenge for what?"

Like a curtain dropping, Sparrow's eyes went dark.  "For a bonny little sloop and good men murdered."

Biltmore snorted and lifted his square chin in disdain.  "Very well.  If it's my purse you want, you shall have it, along with whatever coin and small jewelry I keep in my quarters.  I'm afraid most of my worth is tied up in property, however, so unless you find a way to remove citrus groves or herds of cattle, you will -."

"Oh, I'll take your purse right enough, mate," purred Jack, and followed his outstretched pistol along the table towards Biltmore in slow, smooth steps, the stalking pace of a swordsman.   "But it's your life we'll be tradin' … for the African Star."

~~ _On the dark water the black ship slowed and began to turn … turning the full length of her side towards the walls …~~ _

Biltmore's eyes literally bulged as his face flushed crimson, and his response rasped as if towed from his lips.  "Damn your soul …"

"Some say that's already done, mate."  Jack daintily flicked his free hands towards the door.  "Now, how about we go convince your lads to surrender like good boys, ay?"

~~ _And gouts of flames burst sputtering down the side of that black hull. ~~_

An eye-blink later thunder split the night and masonry exploded in a shattering drumbeat along the outer walls.

"JACK, LOOK OUT!"

Light and shadow swung crazily as Biltmore wrenched the nearest lantern from the wall and hurled it to a fiery detonation against the table between them.  With a lunge he reached the sideboard while Anamaria shot and missed, and there seized his own pistol. Biltmore returned fire just as both pirates dropped.  Splinters burst from a chair back then the second lantern exploded and plunged the room into darkness.  Only a thin line of blue-gold flame remained, running along the polished tabletop like water.  Cannons boomed outside as Jack scuttled forwards beside a forest of chair legs.  He popped up behind the table with his cocked pistol - but Biltmore was gone.

"That way!" Anamaria shouted amidst the smoky shadows.

She waved her own now-empty pistol towards an open side door and Jack swept off the _serape to let it fall.  Then together they sprang in pursuit._

Down a dark hall they ran, hearing the footfalls of the man who fled before them.  A door slammed and they skidded on Spanish tile in a flurry of scrambling feet as they rounded a corner.  Several closed doors stood gleaming in the dim light, any one of which could conceal their quarry.  Sparrow, however, gestured sharply ahead and on they flew.  A hallway opened to one side and Jack slid to a halt, flinging his back to the wall, Anamaria beside him.  Breathing tightly through his nose he crouched and peered cautiously - there!

Up they leapt, feet pounding fast as a long shadow spilled and bounded and vanished down a windowed corridor.  Squares of moonlight flickered past, glimpses of polished furniture and heavy framed paintings all wrapped in gloom.  Yet although they raced in a perfect tumult of flying knees and elbows they were, nonetheless, just a moment too late.

The door at the end of the hall slammed with a pane-rattling crash and when Jack yanked it open, there was only an empty courtyard beyond.  Out in the moonlight Sir John Biltmore galloped across the paving stones with great, loping strides, making towards the walls and safety amongst his own men.  Behind in the doorway Sparrow's mouth twisted in a silent but heartfelt curse.

***

Moonlight ignited white sails to incandescence as the _Dauntless_ forged northwest with the inky silhouette of Cuba's coastline crouched low off her larboard beam.  Silently she sailed, a ship mostly asleep while those on watch went about their duties in the hush that nighttime seemed to demand.  Empty silver waters and starry skies embraced the great ship, and to the officer of the deck it seemed a lovely, uneventful Caribbean night.

Uneventful, that is, until a ruddy light flashed against the dark shoreline and became a queer, stuttering flare like heat lightning.  It blinked out - and was echoed an instant later by a staccato thudding across the water.

"Good heavens …" breathed Lieutenant Groves, hands gripping the larboard rail.

A clapping of hard shoes on deck brought a midshipman skidding wide-eyed to his side. "Sir!  Did you see that?  Is that what I think it is?"

"I believe so."  Groves' chiseled face tightened in concentration, and then he snapped his attention towards the lad.  "Rouse the commodore.  Tell him we have cannon fire ashore.  And beat 'to quarters'."

"Aye, sir!"  The midshipman whirled and was gone.

Moments later the frantic rattling of a drum hammered out its stern summons and the _HMS Dauntless boiled to life._

"So …" murmured Commodore Norrington, narrow-eyed in his scrutiny of the black shoreline as he buttoned the last buttons of his coat.  "That is where you have gotten yourself to, Captain Sparrow."

"Sir?"  Gillette appeared beside him, face round and white as the moon itself.  "Are we going in there?  That Capitan Herrera back there was very emphatic in his demands that we stay off and not touch Cuban soil."

"Mister Gillette."  Norrington tugged his coat straight and offered the younger man a frosty smile.  "Since when do we take orders from the Spanish navy?"  Turning his attention outboard once more, he added, "Besides, someone _owes_ us for the indignity of that encounter."

He strode away towards the helm and the _Dauntless_ began to turn west-southwest towards Cuba's dark shore. 

***

Smoke and flame, shouts and cannon fire rocked the harbor, hazing the silvery water in a bitter fog.  "_La nave del Diablo!"_ rang the panicked cry as men reeled half-dressed from their beds to join their comrades in returning fire.

Meanwhile beneath the smoke and thunder longboats glided like sharks across the water to grind their hulls upon the sandy shore.  From them spilled a savage cargo, moonlight glinting on swords and pistols.  Among the invaders leapt Will Turner with a naked blade and eager eyes, Joshamee Gibbs at one hand and Original John at the other.  The pirates of the _Black Pearl_ had come for all they could claim and behind them the _Pearl's guns boomed once more._

Up a turning path they ran, silent but for the jagged rasp of breathing and the muffled thudding of swift feet.  The stone walls loomed pale in the moonlight while overhead cannon thundered and belched smoky fire.  In seconds the tall front gate stood before them.  A slashing gesture halted them all in silence, and then Will and Irish John loped forward and bent at the gate's foot.

On the ramparts above, Sir John Biltmore strode from the smoke and chaos in a very fury and his voice lashed at his men like a scourge.

"STAND FAST, DAMN YOUR SOULS!  STAND FAST!  If a ship can be sailed a ship can be sunk!  STAND, I tell you!"

Towering and wrathful he sprang upon the wall, incongruously dressed in a silk smoking jacket while a pistol swung in one hand.  Chunks of stone lay still smoking as testament to the black ship's gunners, two men also lying broken amongst the rubble, and two of his cannon were cocked aslant, completely off their carriages.  However, Biltmore stalked to the first gun still on its wheels and jabbed his pistol at it.

"Is this gun loaded?" he demanded of the men cringing behind the walls.

"Aye, sir," quavered the gun crew's captain.

"THEN WHY ARE YOU NOT FIRING, DAMN YOU, SIR!"

The men leapt to their feet as Biltmore wheeled and bellowed, "Mister Fry!"

The first mate of the _Royal Venture appeared almost instantaneously, a long bloody gash down his temple.  "Sir?"_

The cannon behind them boomed as Biltmore slammed a fist into Fry's shirt front and jerked him almost up on his toes.  "Jack Sparrow was in my house.  You will go roust the rest of the men and when you find Sparrow, you will kill him dead, dead, _dead!"_

"Aye sir!"

Then a deafening flash burst the night and the main gate asunder.

Through smoke and smoldering wreckage the _Black Pearl_'s pirate crew charged howling.  More explosions rocked the compound, shattering masonry and roofing tiles in a merry din.  Will skidded to a halt as Tearlach held a slow-match to yet another peculiar, pomegranate-shaped object and then hurled the sizzling granadoe * with all his strength.  Fire burst into a cloud of splinters as an awning buckled and roofing tiles avalanched to shatter on paving stones like a small mountain of crockery. 

Yet Will took no joy in the breaking of glass or splintering of doors.  He understood that Sparrow's intent was to make the sound and fury seem worse than it was, hopefully demoralizing Biltmore's men into surrender.  Nevertheless, the young blacksmith had his own goal and it burned as a white flame in his heart.

"Have ye seen Jack?"  Gibbs appeared at Will's side, his broad grizzled features crimped in worry.  "He should have Biltmore by now."

"Not yet - There he is!  JACK!"

Halfway across the courtyard a lithe dark figure sprang onto the fountain's curb, his cutlass flashing shards of ruddy moonlight as he parried the attack of not one but three enemies.  With a leap Sparrow gained the rim of the fountain itself, steel slashing tumbling water before striking aside an opponent's blade.  In the next blink Jack's booted foot shot out to whack the man's chin and topple him unconscious at Will Turner's feet.  Will's blow to the head felled the second man and Gibbs put the third out like a light.

"Come on, Jack!" Will shouted.  "We can take them!"

Sparrow leaped down from the fountain and spun to scan the surrounding walls.  His eyes narrowed as they fixed on a heavy figure striding up there amidst the smoke.

Following his gaze, Will said, "I thought you were going to capture him."

"He was disinclined to accept me 'ospitality.  Come, lads!  Let's make an end to this as quickly as possible."

***

* _As early as 1691 there was a crude sort of hand-made grenade, which were called at the time "granadoes."  Reference from The Maritime History Virtual Archives, quoting John Seller: "The Sea-Gunner: Shewing the Practical Part of Gunnery, as it is used at Sea." 1691.  From this came the famed French and British Grenadiers of the 1700's.  We saw granadoes in use in the original movie, when Barbossa's men sacked __Port Royal__._

TBC …

**_A/N:_**  _Nothing much to add here this time, other than to wish everyone a happy, healthy and prosperous 2004, the Year of the Monkey!  Many blessings to you all._

_I'll also apologize for the cliff-hanger!!  I'll get the next chapter out as quick as I can, but things are just going to be happening fast and furious, now, so please don't lynch me!  I'll be as prompt and steady in posting as I can. _ :-)


	26. Chapter 26 Inopportune Moments

**PIRATES OF THE **CARIBBEAN******: THE AFRICAN STAR**

**By ErinRua**

CHAPTER 26

Elizabeth flinched awake from a sleep she had not known she fell into, blinking muzzy-headed into darkness and stars.  Confusion about her wakefulness warred with the awareness that in her bed of forest loam she felt damp as a snake.  She pushed herself to her elbows, fingers pulling leaves from her hair on one side.  Next to her Bess sat framed against the night sky like an ebony statue.

"What is it?" Elizabeth whispered.

"Somet'ing," returned Bess' alto reply.  "Like t'under from de sea."

As if in response a thudding rumble shuddered from the dark and Elizabeth realized this had been what awakened her.  With a gasp she scrambled to her knees.

"Cannons!  They're here!"

The women seized their meager belongings - sandals, the water gourd, one precious orange - and Bess led the way.  Upwards through thickly-slapping leaves they clambered and in moments the darkness of the jungle gave way before the silver light of a newly-risen half moon.  From their vantage point they could see dots of amber light in Biltmore's estate, below, and beyond that the darkling shimmer of the harbor.  There like a nightmare vision drifted a great black ship and as they watched, sooty fire flared along her sides.  A beat later the battering boom of distant cannon fire reached them.

"Dis our chance - go!"

With all the haste that night and the jungle permitted the two fugitives scrambled down from the heights.  As trees thinned the moonlight filtered through, but shadow still laid tricks for the eye and traps for the unwary step.

"They won't know where the other girls are," Elizabeth hissed as they clambered over the rounded boulders of a stony streambed.  "We'll have to show them - we might have to provide a distraction if they have trouble getting in."

Bess' face turned towards her only briefly.  "What distraction dat be?"

"I don't know - careful, that rock is loose!  But we'll think of something.  Come on!"   

***

Blade skated against blade as Will parried a savage stroke and riposted inside the man's guard.  A steely flash and the man cried out, the sword wrenched from his hand to fly skittering across the paving stones.

"Yield now!" cried Will and the tip of his sword quivered before his opponent's face.

"_No mas - por favor -."_

Two hands rose in surrender and Will struck past them - knuckles cracking the man's chin and dropping him senseless. Hurdling over the unconscious form Will leapt to the next foe, but Original John was there first.  The big man seized collar and belt in either hand and with a mighty heave sent his captive screeching through shattering windowpanes.  All around them bodies grappled and blows thudded as the crew of the _Black Pearl_ boiled across the courtyard, driving the defenders back.  Atop the walls Sir John Biltmore bellowed to his men, but his cannons could not be turned inwards and it seemed his fury would be in vain.

A dozen pirates had won their way onto the wall, and as Will looked they tipped a cannon from its carriage with a heavy crash.  Some of the beleaguered defenders were drawing back along the wall, coalescing towards Biltmore's unmistakable figure. Below, against the ruddy flicker of sputtering flames Sparrow's lean silhouette stood framed in fine defiance.

"Surrender now, ye scurvy dogs," he shouted.  "And we'll spare your miserable lives!  Lay down your arms; the _Black Pearl_ does not want your blood!"

All around the courtyard, Biltmore's men faced the pirate crew's snarling menace and their battered courage faltered.  Several men began throwing down their arms to cry for quarter, as the demand for surrender was echoed by Sparrow's crew.

However, from the walls Biltmore roared in fury.  "I'LL BE DAMNED BEFORE I CONCEDE TO THE LIKES OF YOU!"

Gaily Sparrow shouted back, "You'll be shakin' hands with the devil if you don't!"

The pirates cheered raucously, but Will held only one thought.  Elizabeth waited - Elizabeth was here - that certainty drove him like a following gale, and he struck aside resistance without slowing.  Where would she be?

The manor house loomed darkly by moonlight, daunting in its enormity, and Will slid to a halt in the shadows beside the stable.  Where now?  Desperation crowded in his teeth as he panted for breath.  The crew of the _Pearl_ was surging forward again, shouts ringing, blows thudding.  As he watched more of Biltmore's men dropped weapons and flung up their hands in defeat.

Another granadoe exploded and blew a nearby cart into a fiery geyser of splinters and hay.  He ducked as something impacted the wall above his head, and glanced to see the two Johns likewise straightening from the blast behind him.

"Wot was that?" asked Original John.

"What d' ye mean what was that?" Irish John glared at the big man.  "'T'was was a granadoe, ye great gom."

"No …."  A ham-sized hand pointed to the stone stable beside them.  "In there.  Somethin' … squeaked."

Will and Irish John stared at the huge pirate.  He shrugged.

"I 'eard somethin' in there."

"A bleedin' mouse," scoffed Irish John.

Yet as Will's gaze swept the length of the building, his brow furrowed in sudden thought.  It was a typical stable in construction, long and low with a gabled tile roof and arched stone doorways framing white doors.  However, it was not typical to keep a stable shut up tight in the heat of a tropical night.

"It doesn't smell like horse, either," he muttered.  Then he took three quick strides to the main door.  "Locked."

The rattle of metal against wood punctuated his words.  Original John reached to grip the heavy wood sealing a nearby window.

"Shutters nailed up, too," he echoed.

"John!" cried Will and swung his sword towards a shuttered stable window.  "Break that open!"

No sooner had he spoken than the screech of tortured nails rent the air.  Original John's great shoulders bowed as he heaved with all his strength.  Then with a splintering crack the shutter gave way and clattered in pieces to the ground.  Iron bars stood in the black opening beyond.

Will leaped to the window and seized the bars with his free hand, but he saw only darkness within.  Stale odors wafted forth, not the clean scent of horse and hay, and the hairs on his neck prickled.

In anxious dread he asked, "Is anyone there?"

Silence.  Or was it silence?  Almost it seemed the shadows …. breathed.

Renewed shouting burst forth across the courtyard and he glanced back to see Sparrow running with sword in hand for the nearest stone stairs.  The pirate captain's teeth were bared in savage glee as he bounded upwards two steps at a time, his whole concentration focused on his men who fought their way towards Sir John Biltmore's embattled position.

"Please," cried Will into the stable's empty hush.  "You must speak!  I'm here to get you out!"

There - a sound!  Will's knuckles were white on the cold iron as he pressed his face towards the sighing darkness within.

"Please - Elizabeth Swann.  Has anyone seen Elizabeth Swann?  Is she here?"

"Elizabeth?"

A thin, quavering female voice had spoken and something rustled inside the barn's hollowness.  Voices whispered now, many feminine whispers and someone stifled a cough.  A pale shape appeared at the window and moonlight revealed a sweet young woman's face with wide blue eyes.  Cupids-bow lips graced rounded cheeks that should have shown dimples and laughter, not the blank fear that stared back at Will now.

"She was here," the girl said softly.  "But she escaped.  What's happening?"

"Escaped!"  Will lurched against the bars as if he could wrench them loose by main strength.  "Where?  When?"

"As soon as the ship stopped here.  She and Bess … they jumped overboard and ran away. Are you Will Turner?"

"Yes!  Where did she run?"

"I don't know - they swam, and then they must have run off in the jungle."

***

Dark branches caught and snagged as Elizabeth pushed though the jungle growth, towards the looming, rearmost wall of Sir John's hacienda and the tumult of explosions and shouts and cries within.  Oddly, a ruddy light flickered through the leaves and suddenly they were looking at a small open gate.  She stopped in sudden caution.  Glancing back, she saw Bess slowly wagging her head in a gesture of negation, and Elizabeth frowned as she nodded in return.  This was too simple, too inviting.

Sure enough, an instant later a long shadow spilled through the gateway and a sentry appeared, musket gripped in both hands as he peered out into the night.  What could he be looking for outside, when the uproar of battle went on inside the compound he ostensibly guarded?

The answer came in the next moment, with the pattering drumbeat of many running feet.  Elizabeth flung herself back into leafy shadows with Bess beside her, and they dropped into hiding not a moment too soon.  From the darkness poured a torrent of armed men, and the gate sentry gave a glad shout.  Through the opening they streamed in grimly unswerving speed and Elizabeth felt her heart sink.

"This does not look good," she whispered.

Moments later the men were gone, but to the women's astonishment the gate remained open.  A wary look around, and they rose once more.  On sandaled feet they flitted through the gate, glancing up in apprehension, but it appeared the sentry had run on to the battle with his fellows.  Beyond the buildings the shouts and booms of struggle were rising to a new crescendo.  Dark buildings stood along a sloping lane and the reek of smoke wafted to them as they darted from shadow to shadow.  A sudden patter of feet sent the fugitives dodging for cover beneath a set of stairs, and elsewhere cannons thundered again.

Breathing through her mouth in an effort to remain silent, Elizabeth laid a hand to her thundering heart and swallowed hard.  Beside her Bess' eyes gleamed in the dark as she peered warily out.

"We need a plan," Elizabeth whispered.  "Something to even the odds for us."  Her eyes narrowed as she looked at her companion.  "Those guns and cannons need ammunition."

"Yes."

"If they have no more ammunition, they can't be used to fight."

"Yes."

"And if the ammunition is ruined in a very loud and noticeable way … I think that would be a splendid diversion for freeing slaves, don't you?"

Silence.  Then; "You know how to ruin de gun things?"

The moon painted Elizabeth's teeth in pearly white as she leaned towards Bess and smiled.  "Boom," was all she said.

Bess blinked.  Then she smiled, too.  A moment later they continued their furtive way deeper into Sir John Biltmore's realm.

***

Will sagged with his fist still gripping the bars and lifted his face to the black night sky, sooty now with drifting smoke.  More womanly tones whispered inside the stable, a hushed mumble of so many poor souls, but Elizabeth was not one of them.  To come so far and somehow fail … Elizabeth was out there, lost … and suddenly he felt the weight of all Cuba pressing upon him, leaving him ever so small and powerless.

"JACK SPARROW!" rang Biltmore's great shout behind them.  "You've sown the wind, Sparrow.  Now reap the whirlwind!"

Then a roar went up and Irish John screeched, "Saints above!"  With hard hands he shoved Will stumbling.  "Let's get out of here!"

Will staggered and froze as from the darkness poured a howling torrent of new men with swords and pistols and muskets.  Scores of men - a hundred - and the crew of the _Black Pearl_ seemed to collapse back in upon themselves, towards Joshamee Gibbs and Anamaria now shouting for rally and retreat.  Will lunged back to the barred window once more.

"How many of you are there?" he demanded.  "What is your name?"

"I'm Sarah.  Eight of us came with Elizabeth, but there are sixty-two of us captive here."

"Sixty two!"

"Will!" shouted Irish John.  "There's no TIME!"

"Yes!" cried the girl's voice within.  "He's been collecting women for months.  Now go!  Tell someone, but go!"

"Wait -."  But Will's words were cut short when Original John grabbed him around the middle and swept him off his feet, sword and all.  "John, you great idiot - STOP - Sarah, we'll be back!  I swear it!"

His feet struck paving with a thud and he obeyed the heavy shove that compelled him to run.  Everywhere pirates were scrambling and leaping into retreat.  Somewhere across the courtyard Anamaria's clear shout soared above the chaos like a bo'sun's whistle.

"_Black Pearl to me!  __Black Pearl to me!"_

As he ran and jumped briefly to the fountain's stone rim, Will spied Anamaria amongst the tangled knot of the _Pearl's gathering crew.  Her black hair flew about her face and Gibbs was sturdy as an oak beside as he struck a lunging attacker down - but where was Jack?  Will looked up - and in shock saw Sparrow still atop the wall.  As several pirates fled to safety behind him Jack fought on, fierce and desperate and absolutely out-numbered by the dozen or more men now pressing towards him.  There was no pretense of style or form as he slashed his cutlass about him like a harvester amidst wheat._

No time for thought, no time for anything but a frantic leap into a dead run that in three seconds put Will pelting up the stairs.  His shoes rapped hard stone as he bent and seized a cannon ball from beside a shattered gun carriage.  Two strides and a powerful underhand hurled the iron sphere rumbling and a man shrieked as his ankle buckled beneath him.

"HA!" cried Will and seized another ball.

A surging heave from the shoulder and four pounds of iron smote another man over the edge, but by then Will was already at Jack's side.  Metal screeched metal as he brutally parried a blow that would have taken Sparrow at the waist, and he spared no thought for the man who plummeted from his answering strike with a choking cry.

"Will!" cried Jack cheerfully. "So good of you to join me!"  Then the moment for speech was past.

Blade and blade, side by side, pirate and blacksmith waged a calculated retreat.  Without thought or word they fought as if they had practiced this mortal synchronicity every day of their lives.  Beat and beat again their swords clashed out the measures of a steely dance, until in that narrow place Biltmore's men remembered caution and advanced along the wall more slowly.  However, below them the courtyard boiled with the flood of Biltmore's reinforcements and the crew of the _Pearl had vanished into the night._

Abruptly Jack announced, "Time to go!"

Flinging a glance over his shoulder Will saw men surging towards the foot of the stairs behind them, cutting off their only avenue of escape.

"That might be easier said than done."

"Nonsense, me boy."  Jack's thin black moustache framed a white grin.  "We use the oldest trick in the book - jump!"

Turning, Sparrow bounded into the shattered notch in the outermost wall where a cannon lay dismounted.  There he faced their foes and swung his cutlass in a broad, mocking salute.

"As fun as this has been, gentlemen, I really must bid you good night.  Oh, and Sir John?  We'll speak again.  Ta!"

And with that Jack Sparrow simply dropped off the edge and disappeared.  Suddenly faced with Biltmore's entire garrison hungrily eyeing his solitary self, Will sprang up into the embrasure as well.  Only the weaving tip of his blade held the growling throng at bay, and that would end at any instant.

Then his heart kicked into a chunk of ice as, across the heads of his enemies, he met the fuming glare of Sir John Biltmore himself - and saw his recognition returned.  Here was the vile creature who had stolen Elizabeth Swann.  Here was the brute who had cast a beautiful girl's body overboard like so much refuse.  Here was the killer who had murdered Matty Whitlock and destroyed the _Lady Elizabeth_.

However, Will could not think of anything clever or intimidating to say.  Thus he simply held the man's stare, his dark eyes never wavering as he brought his own sword before his face in salutation - and promise.

"GET HIM!" Biltmore roared.

As his men surged forward with a howl Will prayed, stepped back, and vanished.

*** 

"It's getting quieter, now."  Eyes wide in the darkness, Elizabeth wished she could see through the buildings that stood between her and the battle in the courtyard.  

Bess paused beside her, also listening, and Elizabeth shook her head.  "Something is wrong.  Battles should get louder, not quieter."

Bess' deeper tones whispered back, "Be careful.  Mebbe de wrong people winnin', eh?"

Elizabeth did not want to think that, but as they crept on the growing hush within the compound was very odd.  The cannon fire had utterly ceased and only an occasional pop of musketry was heard.  Shouts rang out every so often, but now they were the voices of men calling orders or questions, not the chaos of fighting.  A cold hand seemed to clench her stomach and she tried not to think what this new calm could mean.

At a gap between buildings, the slope of the hillside upon which the hacienda lay was such that they could see over the front walls to the centre of the harbor.  A half moon hung above the headland, and beneath stood the silhouette of the _Black Pearl_ upon a shimmering silver carpet of sea.

The _Black Pearl, aye, but Elizabeth halted as she realized there was motion on board.  The dark sails were moving … the pirate ship was slowly turning to catch the wind._

"No …"

"Dey leavin'?"

Despair like an avalanche slid crushing upon Elizabeth's heart and she pressed quick fingers to her lips.  From the walls overlooking the harbor a ragged cheer went up as Biltmore's men realized the same harsh fact.  The _Black Pearl_ was indeed leaving; Jack Sparrow was retreating and with them went Will Turner and Elizabeth's last hope.  The breath she drew to quench the threat of tears scalded bitterly in her throat.

"Bloody pirates."

Then she clenched her teeth tightly as her eyes caught on a distant figure striding atop the walls.  Tall and heavy with the weight of his own arrogance, even at this distance and in this poor light there was no mistaking Sir John Biltmore.

"Then we'll just have to do it all ourselves, Bess."

"What you t'ink we do, den?"

In the darkness Bess was little more than a dark shape, with moonlight gleaming on the curve of cheek and forehead and reflecting tiny points of light in her black eyes.  Facing her, Elizabeth pursed her lips in brief thought and then her head came up.

"This will be our only chance," she said hurriedly.  "They are focused on what just happened and won't be looking for trouble from within.  If we create a big enough diversion, maybe it will confuse them for a few moments."  Taking a quick breath she added, "We just need enough time to get everyone out the gate.  Once we're in the jungle -."

"Nobody can find us," Bess finished with a grim little smile.

"Exactly.  Wait, I have an idea!"

The building beside them was a blacksmith shop judging by the hot-metal smells emanating from it, and Elizabeth pushed open the rickety door with greatest caution.  Nothing greeted her but darkness, hollow silence and the dull glow of nearly-dead coals in the forge.  Silently she slipped inside, feeling her way past work benches, anvils and racks of tools.  The forge was her goal, though once she stifled a yelp when her shin connected with something unyielding and iron.

Faint heat breathed from the sleeping forge along with metallic scents that reminded her with wrenching force of Will.  Oh, how she wished to look up and see his handsome face limned golden in the light of friendly coals, his dark eyes shining with that warm, sweet smile that was only and always for her.  The tears again burned unshed as her fingers gently touched a stranger's well-worn shaping hammer.

Abruptly she jerked herself back to the moment.  A swift glance revealed various dim shapes and her fumbling hand closed around a metal dipper.  Intended for pouring molten metals into a mold, it would certainly suffice for carrying hot coals.  Seizing a set of tongs she stirred the bed of embers to find the brightest ones and hastily scooped several into the dipper.  Leaning cautiously she blew them into brighter life, much as she would blow on a hot spoonful of soup.

"Hurry!"  Bess' hiss from the door was startling as a stiff finger in the ribs.

With a last glance around, Elizabeth fled from the shop.  "Come on!  We won't have long."

The door thudded gently closed and they were gone.

***

TBC …

**_A/N:_**_ I promise I won't leave you hanging for long!  I'm actually writing up ahead on Chapters 30 through 32, now, frantically tweaking, polishing and perfecting - and that, dear readers, will soon bring us to The End.  But I want it to be a proper end that leaves you all grinning, so I will continue pacing my posts so as not to leave any long delays.  I shall, however, post the next chapter within the next couple days.  My intent is to keep 'em coming every 2 or 3 days until the conclusion._

_To new readers who have come aboard - Thank You!  I can't express how cheering and wonderful it is to hear new voices from the ether!  SarrChasm, thank you for kind critical comments, as well.  I'll be making a couple repairs based on your pointers, soon.  Thanks again, everyone!  Knowing you are there has kept the wind in my creative sails._ :-)


	27. Chapter 27 Dance With The Devil

**PIRATES OF THE **CARIBBEAN******: THE AFRICAN STAR**

**By ErinRua**

CHAPTER 27

"Cor, mate, ye mind leanin' a bit more t' leeward?"

That complaint came from somewhere in the dark behind Will, but he paid it no heed while he tied off the last lashing that secured one of the boats on deck.  As he straightened he likewise ignored Gibbs' grimace of distaste.  However, he stood for an instant while the grizzled first mate brushed hastily at Will's back then plucked something off to flick it over the side.

The malodorous condition in which Will and Jack found themselves was the least of his frustrations.  Stink be damned, they were retreating from Sir John Biltmore and leaving Elizabeth behind.  Already canvas thudded overhead as sails caught the wind and he felt the _Black Pearl beginning to move sluggishly beneath him.  With his jaw clenched Will strode towards Jack Sparrow at the rail._

"Well, Jack.  Jumping into a midden heap was a lovely idea.  I don't think I've ever known such a stink before.  What new and marvelous plans do you have up your sleeve?"

Sparrow pivoted to face him, eyes glinting in the moonlight.  "You're alive, mate.  You didn't specify that you wanted to remain sweet-smellin', too."

Jack turned and started walking aft, but Will stuck like glue.  "Fine, but you are making a new plan, right?  This is just to regroup and think up another strategy.  Right?"

"Strategy for what, Will?  Your lass is not there."

"She's here somewhere!  And those poor women -."

"Will."  Sparrow halted and faced him again, a stiff finger raised between them.  "One.  I am not prepared to invade Cuba with a single ship for the sake of any woman.  Two.  If there are sixty-two women needin' rescue, that is more than I've got crew on this ship.  How would I get sixty-two females to anywhere safe on earth without starvin' us all on short rations, inciting a mutiny, or gettin' sunk by someone like your Commodore Norrington?"

For a tense beat they stared at each other, Will's jaw set in lines as hard as the back of an ax.  "Then you're giving up.  Even the African Star, a diamond that is the envy of kings, is not enough to purchase your courage."

He flinched sharply as Sparrow's face was suddenly inches from his own, black eyes gleaming like frozen obsidian.  "You know nothing, boy."

The young blacksmith actually felt Sparrow's breath puff against his face, and then cool air wafted in as Jack spun away.  Underfoot the deck leaned as the _Pearl_ took more of the wind towards the harbor mouth, and Will felt his guts seize into a cold, nauseous knot.

"Jack -."

He did not mean for his voice to croak like a cat with a hairball, but at least the other man stopped.

Though he spoke only to Sparrow's back, Will said very quietly, "Then put me ashore, Jack.  No matter if it means my death, I will not abandon Elizabeth here."

A moment, then Sparrow turned towards him again, his face inscrutable in the shadows.  What he might have said was lost, however, as a frantic shout rang out from aloft.

"Sail, ho!  SAIL, HO!  Good God - Captain!"

Will was not a jump behind as Jack sprang to the rail and the half moon revealed her secret.  From beyond the headland now ghosted a vast tower of pale sails, gliding inexorably into the harbor's mouth.  Tiny points of light were lanterns on the ship's deck, beneath which they knew scores of men stood ready for battle.  A grim vision of Royal Navy might, the _HMS Dauntless seemed to march in from the dark sea like a leviathan, and in so doing cut off the __Black Pearl's only route of escape._

Odd, how Will suddenly became aware that Time had stopped.  Seconds slowed and spiraled and narrowed down to this single moment, while a hundred guns crouched in the belly of that great ship, needing but a spark to end every hope he ever knew.  The clarity of his vision was terrifying; this was the death the _Black Pearl would inevitably die.  This was the grim truth with which Jack Sparrow lived, and yet somehow found the courage to mock in his own barmy brand of defiance._

"Jack -."  Will's stomach had plunged straight into his bowels and he was surprised he still had any voice left.  "Whatever you do, I'll stand with you."

"Thank you, William."  Sparrow clapped Will's shoulder in an iron grip and his teeth glinted in the brightest, maddest smile Will had seen yet.  "Because we're going to dance with the devil."  In a ringing shout he then cried, "Mister Gibbs!  Load the guns, every man to his station.  Anamaria!  Hold our course as she bears!"

A queer silence gripped the _Pearl as she slid though the black water and her crew scrambled to their quarters.  Not another voice was heard, only the creaks of a moving ship, the thudding of hasty feet and the rumble of cannons being drawn back for loading._

***

On board the _Dauntless the tension was nearly tangible and the silence all but vibrated.  Commodore Norrington stood beside his helmsman in absolute stillness, his eyes fixed on the dark ship across the water.  He could see the long silhouette of her bowsprit shortening as she slowly turned towards them._

"What is he doing?"

The whispered question came from Lieutenant Gillette, with Lieutenant Groves standing slack-jawed beside him, but Norrington spared them neither glance nor reply.  What, indeed, would Mad Jack Sparrow do?

Groves watched the _Pearl and shook his head in dismay.  "We have the clear advantage in size, guns, wind.  They are barely making headway.  What can Sparrow be thinking?"_

Below decks the _Dauntless' cannon crews crouched at their larboard guns, every piece primed and ready.  In the tops marines waited with loaded muskets and the warship slid further into the bay._

"Sir," said Gillette in a puzzled tone.  "Her gun ports are closed."

"So they are," Norrington replied.

"Sir, will we -."

Glancing at them with an unexpected surge of fondness, Norrington gave the two young men a small smile.  "Please go to your stations, gentlemen.  Await my orders.  And may God keep you."

"God keep you, sir," they both echoed and saluted before scrambling away.

Water curled in small silver lines along the pirate ship's hull, slowly drawing the curve of her turn and then fading to gleaming black.  Groves had spoken truly when noting that the _Dauntless had the advantage, whilst the __Pearl scarcely moved faster than a man could jog.  With the sea wind at her back the __Dauntless could easily drive straight in to hammer the _Pearl _with a full broadside, and then turn to take the stern right out of her.  Yet for Sparrow there was no room to run within the confines of this bay, no sea upon which to manoeuvre.  Surely the pirate captain could see that.  Then coldness settled into Norrington's stomach as he realized that perhaps Sparrow had no intentions of surviving this encounter, if the hangman was the only other prospect he saw._

The two ships continued moving, the _Black Pearl_ barely creeping while the _Dauntless_ surged powerfully to meet her.  Norrington watched almost without breathing as the distance between them steadily shortened.  Now the _Pearl was within easy range of the warship's bow-chasers, needing only a twitch of the helm to turn a full broadside to bear.  The ports remained closed along the pirate ship's hull, but they could be opened in an instant and he must presume her guns were as ready as his own.  She turned - just slightly - bearing a point away from the oncoming __Dauntless.  It was then he realized that the __Pearl was losing her wind, that her yards had turned so that the sails spilled empty.  Jack Sparrow was making his stand._

"Damn you, Sparrow … your audacity may kill us all."

Commodore Norrington was no stranger to war or the deadly duels of great ships.  Yet he was discovering how very queer it was to know the man on that other deck, to be able to envision his face and imagine his voice.  Here, what was this?  A sudden light flared at the _Black Pearl's bows, a lantern uncovered and now swinging in a slow arc at the side._

"Hold your positions!" Norrington shouted.

Silence.  He heard only the creak of rigging, the whispered gurgle of water past the hull.  A sudden clang startled him until his brain recognized the measured cadence of the ship's bell.  Four sets of two strikes, eight bells.  Midnight.  The _Black Pearl_ was now dead under the _Dauntless_' guns.

"Commodore Norrington!"  The thin shout drifted across the water, but there was no mistaking the jovial volume behind those tones.  "Might I have a word with you, sir?"

The lantern still waved and now Norrington dimly made out several figures on the _Pearl's foredeck.  Thoughts hurtled through his head almost too quickly to grasp, desperately juggling the pieces of the puzzle that was Jack Sparrow.  A sudden scrambling of feet materialized into a breathless midshipman, who thrust a speaking cone into Norrington's hands._

Glancing at the boy's white face, Norrington took the cone, but lowered it as he spoke quietly once again to the ship across the water.  "Are you seeking suicide, Sparrow?  Or are you trying to engineer an escape?"

Thus resolved, he drew a deep breath, lifted the cone and hoped by all that was holy that he was not making a mistake.

"Captain Sparrow!  Do you wish to speak of surrender?"

A pause, then the jolly reply drifted back.  "Surrender?  I wouldn't know what to do with a surrendered ship-of-the-line!"

Norrington ground his teeth at this deliberate misunderstanding, but Sparrow was not through.

"How about a little parlay, Commodore?  A gentleman's discussion?"

At times like this the quarterdeck seemed so much a world apart.  There was no one with whom Norrington could consult; no wiser mind to advise him.  He was the governing power on this ship and every decision he made affected scores of lives.  Were it any other pirate the _Dauntless' guns would have fired already - and that realization took the commodore by surprise._

What bizarre sort of trust could he possibly imagine dwelt in a madman like Jack Sparrow?  Or was the pirate ship possibly crippled from its earlier exchange with the cannons ashore?  Sparrow might be pulling a bluff that he was too damaged to back up - but in the dark Norrington of course could not know.  Inhaling deeply he lifted the cone before his mouth again.

"Come across.  You, and four men to row a boat."

Another long pause, during which Norrington caught his bo'sun's eye, nodded and pointed to the sails.  The man touched his forelock and hastened away.  Sailors manned the sheets and the great warship began to slow.

"Fair enough," echoed the disembodied reply.  "We shall stand as we are.  I'll be over directly."

In the long moments that followed Norrington found himself inordinately drawn to the idea of prayer.  Either Sparrow had some devious plan in mind, with the _Black Pearl_ and the _Dauntless_ both facing each other having no wind and equal lack of maneuverability, or …  The young commodore could not think of a sufficient "or" and once again contemplated praying.  Perhaps he could take consolation in knowing that, if he were the architect of his own ship's demise, he could always go down with her and avoid the subsequent disgrace.

Soon the wooden thunk of oars sounded below and sailors dropped a rope ladder over the side.  Marines stood watchfully by with fixed bayonets.  No sooner did a tousled, red-clothed head appear at the rail than two burly men seized the newcomer's arms and hoisted him bodily over and onto the deck.

"Ere, now!" Sparrow yelped, scowling to either side as rough hands frisked him, seizing his sword and the pistol from his belt.  "No need for that!  Oh!  Commodore."  Instantly his white and gold teeth appeared in an ingratiating.  "Lovely night, ennit?  How'd your little parlay with the Spaniards go, anyhow?"

"Without a hitch," Norrington replied coolly.  "I advised Captain Herrera as to your identity and suggested that he and his seventy-four guns might wish to make your acquaintance sometime very soon."  Then his composure faltered as an errant breeze passed.  "Good heavens, what is that smell?"

"Wot's that?  Oh."  Sparrow lifted an arm, sniffed loudly then grinned.  "I took a short cut, as it were."

By way of what Norrington did not want to know.  The commodore was not surprised to see the next man over the rail and into custody was Will Turner.  He stifled a mental wince as he noted the blacksmith also had to be relieved of his sword and his handsome young face was set in a stubborn mien Norrington knew only too well.

Three other pirates also appeared and came instantly under the muzzles of the marines' muskets.  One pirate wore a bandage around his blond, shaggy head.  One was huge, shave-headed and built like a meat-house.  The third was even more enormous, with one arm in bandages and he offered his captors a perfectly ugly grin.  The marines edged warily back and gave themselves a little more room.

"So," said Norrington, and took measured steps to face his two most interesting captives.  Duty first, he reminded himself.  Duty and the lives of his crew.  "We seem to have a bit of a quandary, here.  But whatever happens, Captain Sparrow, know that the _Black Pearl_ is herewith deprived of her commander, and anything your men do will be without your clever wit.  If you commit the least indiscretion I will not hesitate to sink her where she stands, and your body will hang from the yardarm at sunup."

Sparrow blinked wide eyes.  "That is very good, Commodore," he approved, and tapped in the air as if making a notation.  "I am impressed.  You 'ave a knack for nice, gruesome threats.  But your delivery could use a bit of work."  He patted ringed fingers against his belly.  "Project your voice from the stomach.  Makes it even more convincing."

Young Turner seemed to find the tips of his shoes suddenly fascinating, and Norrington clung sternly to his composure as he reminded himself with whom he spoke.

"So long as the message is understood.  Now, pray tell why we are having this … parlay?"  He permitted himself a tiny, grim smile.  "It would appear you attempted to crack a nut that was too big for you."

"A strategic -."

Sparrow's attempt to wave off the comment earned him a corrective jerk from the marines beside him, wherewith he shot another glare at his captors.  They let go at Norrington's nod and Sparrow vigorously dusted off his sleeves.  

"A strategic miscalculation was all," he continued briskly.  "Our assessment of his numbers was a little off.  But I can tell you that their morale is low and they are driven more by fear of their master than love for 'im.  It would take little to break them completely.  With a proper show of force I should think they would collapse like a paper castle, especially if they are offered a fair surrender."

Norrington's stare was positively glacial as he replied.  "What in heaven's name are you talking about, and why are you talking about it?  This is Cuba.  We are a British naval vessel.  You are a pirate.  I fail to see the linking factors anywhere amongst your babble."

"Slaves," said Will Turner suddenly.  His brown eyes stared back sharply as daggers as Norrington's attention swung to him.  "Sixty-two women that Sir John Biltmore holds at this very moment, locked in his stable like beasts.  He has been collecting them for months."

The silence shimmered, then Norrington said softly, "And you know this how?"

"I spoke to one of them.  I heard their voices!"

"I see."  Actually, Norrington was not seeing much of anything that made sense, but he was not about to let these two know that.  "What of Miss Swann?"

Turner's resolve visibly crumbled and his shoulders slumped. "She escaped when they dropped anchor here.  She's out somewhere in the jungle."

"Leaving sixty two of her fellow sufferers behind.  Yet you failed to find her or free any of them in your quest for plunder."

"We didn't have time!"

"Or your Captain Sparrow did not allow time.  Tell me, Sparrow, why _are you here?"_

"Business opportunities," Sparrow replied with an artificial smile.

"Ah."

Turner leaped instantly into the breech.  "Why are you here, Commodore?  Last I heard these were not British waters."

Containing his temper behind the uniform, Norrington's brow furrowed slightly as he debated his response.  "Sir John's first mate, Thomas Fry, is wanted for kidnapping and murder.  It had been my intent -."  He leveled a scathing look at Jack's instant expression of innocence.  "To apprehend him on the open sea and thus have cause to search the _Royal Venture_ and free Miss Swann.  You have very nicely spoilt that plan, haven't you, Sparrow?"

"Honestly, Commodore."  Jack simpered foolishly.  "You give me entirely too much credit."

"I give you all the blame," Norrington corrected, mouth tightening as he enunciated each word.  "And now you have the gall to ask me to repair your mistakes."

"No!" cried Will.  "We're asking you to help us put an end to Sir John's dastardly schemes."  His white teeth clenched as he switched to open pleading.  "For the love of God, Commodore, we cannot leave them there!  He will _sell them all as slaves!  Please, I promised them we'd be back!"_

Drawing a long, deep breath, Norrington turned and walked several paces away.  Behind him Turner cried angrily, "Commodore, you must do something!  How can the Royal Navy claim any honor at all, if you can turn away from this?  He flew false colors and all but fed you to the Spaniards!"

The commodore exhaled slowly and stared towards the black shoreline.  There seemed a haze of smoke under the stars and a dull glow that could have been small fires beyond the profile of a heavy wall.  Sir John Biltmore's mysterious estate.  The centerpiece of all his endeavors, legal or illegal.  Furious did not begin to describe Norrington's state of mind that matters had come to this pass.

Pivoting sharply, he snapped, "Sparrow, if this is some depraved trick to win your freedom, I swear to you I will make your death my life's work!"

But Jack simply looked back at him, his dark eyes pools of shadow in the lamplight.  Quietly he said, "Even I am not so base as that, Commodore.  Do what you will with me … but those lasses do not deserve the torment of slavery."

Will stood beside Jack with an expression so alike that they might have been bookends, and Norrington wished fervently that he could read the truth behind even one of them.

"You are a pirate, Sparrow.  You do nothing without recompense.  What is in this for you?"

With a languid shrug, Jack replied, "Nothing for me.  But for the _Pearl_ …" A slow, sly grin grew across his face one gold tooth at a time.  "She goes free."

"I knew it!"

Sparrow shrugged blithely.  "That's one alternative."  Then he ignored the rattle of aimed muskets as he swayed three paces closer to stand inches from Norrington's face.  In a soft voice pitched only for the commodore's ears he purred, "Or the _Pearl and the _Dauntless_ can stand out here, go to guns and blast each other to smithereens. … In which case the _Pearl_ will be sunk, but the _Dauntless_, I can promise you, will be hurtin'."_

The pirate's black stare seemed to be probing for Norrington's very thoughts, as he smiled and gently continued. "Now … would you rather be the hero that put an end to John Biltmore's ring of white slavery?  Quite a feather in your cap, to be hailed as the rescuer of three-score-and-two innocent young damsels from the clutches of a tyrant."

His fingers delicately plucked verbal images from the air as he bared his teeth in a smile that was no smile at all.  "Or would you rather be remembered as the man whose thirst for the glory of sinkin' Jack Sparrow reduced 'is own ship to a bloody shambles, unfit for rescuin' all those poor, mistreated ladies?"

Norrington's breath almost whistled through tight nostrils as he stared at the sly dark face before him.  It took all his self-control not to drive a fist into it.

Almost choking on his fury, he hissed, "You are blackmailing me, sir."

"No, Commodore."  Sparrow eased back a half-pace.  "I am simply showin' you the options."

Eyes narrowed, Norrington said lowly, "I do not need the advice of a pirate to understand my options."  

"Of course you don't.  But that's enough of the messy stuff, don't you think?"  Bringing both palms together he smiled at Norrington earnestly.  "It's all really quite simple."

As Will watched them both with beseeching eyes, Jack hesitated, keenly observing the turmoil of emotions that flickered in the commodore's gaze.  "Ask yourself, mate.  Which is the more worthy course?  Pride, or humanity?"

***

TBC …

**_A/N:_**_ More is coming very soon - please don't hurt me! - Oh, and don't worry, Elizabeth will be back.  Definitely.  Won't be able to miss her.  Heh heh heh._

_P.S.  Someone asked if the plural of "cannon" should be "cannon."  I have seen it both ways, with and without an "s" on the end.  I'm honestly not altogether certain if without is correct, but … I'm running with it.  Thank you very much for asking, though, as I certainly do make mistakes!_


	28. Chapter 28 According To Plan

**PIRATES OF THE **CARIBBEAN******: THE AFRICAN STAR**

**By ErinRua**

CHAPTER 28

"Jack - Jack, you can't send me away!  You don't -."

"I can, Will, and I am."  Sparrow tightened his grip on Will's arm as he steered the younger man towards the rail.  "Look, mate.  Whatever 'appens 'ere, now, you can best serve that girl of yours if you are still alive and free to do it."

Frustration written clearly on his young face, Will stopped and gave his head a tight shake.  "That is why I should stay here!  This is a British warship.  If I don't stand a chance with this under my feet, what possible chance would I have alone out there in the dark?"

With a short, equally-frustrated sigh, Sparrow replied, "Do me a favor, boy.  For once in your bloody life, do as you're told."  Leaning closer he added in hushed tones, "You're still a loose cannon, Will.  In the right places a loose cannon can be turned to one's advantage."

Frowning, it was clear that Will neither understood nor agreed, but Tearlach and Original John were already down in the boat below, steadying the rope ladder for those who would return to the _Black Pearl with them.  Irish John had one leg over the rail, watching Will and Jack.  At a glare from the ever-vigilant marines he, too, slipped down the side._

Will watched him go then turned back to Jack, his expression softening but no less troubled.  "I don't want to leave you here, Jack."

Instantly Sparrow donned a brilliant smile that showed every scrap of gold in his head.  "Don't worry about Jack Sparrow, mate.  Seems to me you 'ave enough to do, lookin' after yourself and your bonny lass."  As he stepped back, he added, "Just try not to do anything … stupid."

For just an instant Will's eyes widened, and then he schooled his face to what he hoped was neutrality, offering a wan smile.  "You're the one with a dozen Royal Marines standing behind you.  Take care of yourself, Jack."

After giving a nod to the commodore he clambered over the rail and vanished into the dark below.  Behind him, Sparrow turned about and faced Norrington with a look of vast false cheer.

"Well, I suppose that's that."  With a too-bright grin he waggled both forefingers in indeterminate directions and added, "If you'll just point the way to the brig, I reckon you can 'ave your lads meet me there with the irons and the weevilly bread, ay?  No place for a pirate in a military expedition, so best get me under wraps directly."

Slowly Norrington turned his head and favored Sparrow with a thoroughly measuring look.  "Actually … I was thinking how delighted we would be to have your company."

Sparrow's smile withered noticeably.  "Oh, really, Commodore, the brig is -."

"Nonsense, Captain Sparrow.  You'll come with me." A frosty smile touched Norrington's lips as he added, "That way if you are lying, or anything goes wrong, I can simply have you shot."

Blinking, Sparrow drew his hands to his chest and Norrington was inordinately pleased to see that infuriating grin was no longer anywhere in evidence.  Leaving his pirate hostage in the capable keeping of his marines the commodore turned away to give his orders.

***

"What are they doing out there?" Elizabeth whispered.

The two women huddled in the shadows of a stone building that may have been a creamery, peering out as they watched Biltmore's men bustle about the walls and grounds.  The sudden renewed activity was alarming to say the least, as men boiled about the hacienda with weapons and fierce looks.  Although out of their sight, the fugitives could hear Biltmore's booming voice shouting commands that seemed to give relative order to the confusion.

A sudden clapping of running shoes jolted them, and they scrambled into hiding beside a stack of barrels.  Elizabeth cupped her hands over her dipper least the glow of coals reveal them, and they crouched barely breathing and peered up as fierce faces jogged heavily past.  A moment, and then Elizabeth and Bess cautiously stood.

"Somet'ing goin' on out dere," Bess whispered.  "We don't see, but dey see trouble comin'."

"Yes … but what sort of trouble?"

Elizabeth scowled in frustration as she eyed the distant walls, now lit by torchlight and smoldering small fires.  From where they stood now they could no longer see over the walls to the harbor, and not knowing the situation outside was a dangerous position to be in.  Abruptly she noticed a man jogging across the courtyard carrying some sort of haversack, which he bore up the stairs towards the cannons atop the wall.

"Look!" She tugged Bess' sleeve and pointed.  "He's carrying cartridges for the guns.  We must find out where he came from - that's where we need to be."

Bess nodded, and with a quick glance around Elizabeth cradled her dipper carefully and the two darted off in the direction the man had come from.  Scattered shrubs and stone and wood walls shielded their movements, for it seemed Biltmore's estate was self-sufficient as a small village.  A carriage shed, a smokehouse, a sail maker's loft and other buildings offered cover as they moved, but twice more they shrank back from the swift passage of armed men.

Then of a sudden they found themselves staring at the grey blankness of the estate's south wall.  At its foot crouched a square stone building with an iron door.  Even as they watched, the door clanged open and a man shouldered his way out, setting off as had the first with a wooden crate clutched before him.  Elizabeth gripped Bess' arm as they watched him disappear.

As his footsteps pattered away they darted from concealment, two swift flurries of skirts across a moonlit space.  Elizabeth seized the door handle and pulled - and gave a squeak as it refused to move at all.  Bess reached past and laid her hand to the grip, and between them they hauled the heavy iron entrance open.  Of course there was no light within, but moonlight reflected from the pale earth and they could dimly make out shapes within.  Boxes and kegs were stacked higher than their heads all around the cramped room, and Elizabeth swallowed hard.

"Oh …." she whispered.  "This is all gunpowder and ammunition?"

Bess moved past her and reached to push against a keg.  It did not move.  Her eyes glinted in the gloom as she glanced back at Elizabeth.

"Need somet'ing to break dese.  And you might leave dat outside, eh?"

Her mouth in a sudden O, Elizabeth glanced at her still-smoldering dipper and backed hastily out the door.  She blew on it quickly, gratified to see a small but lively glow, and then propped the dipper against the stone wall outside.  Something to break things with … In growing desperation she glanced around but saw nothing, nothing that would shatter iron-bound oak kegs or crates.  Then Bess touched her sleeve and pointed.  Further along the wall stood what seemed to be a woodshed, a rickety structure from which spilled a tumble of split firewood.

Renewed shouting from out along the walls rose up, a tangle of anxious voices and again Biltmore's deeper tones.  The carriage shed and stable stood between them and the main courtyard, but it was evident that something was happening or about to happen.  Wood chips scattered as Elizabeth scrambled to the shed, Bess at her heels.

"Somewhere - please."

Then moonlight caught on a gleaming length of wood and Elizabeth seized an ax that leaned to one side, while Bess grabbed a sledgehammer undoubtedly used for driving splitting wedges.  Once back in the doorway of the powder magazine, they paused for a moment's contemplation.

With a dubious grimace, for Elizabeth certainly had no real practice in deliberate mayhem, she said, "I suppose we just start … smashing things?"

Bess stepped inside and suddenly swung the sledgehammer with a resounding _CRACK_.  Even in that dim light they could see the rush of black, sandy-looking powder that gushed from the stricken keg to the floor.

"Like dat?"

Elizabeth bared her teeth in a sharp smile.  "Precisely like that," she replied and with a fierce grimace she hefted the ax to her shoulder.

***

Commodore Norrington honestly tried to do everything by the books.  As the _Black Pearl_ slipped towards the mouth of the bay, making good on her freedom, the _Dauntless ponderously turned so that the full bank of her firepower, fifty-two guns on one side, faced the walls of Biltmore's hacienda.  Her boats speared across the dark water like fleets of wooden ducks, oars flashing as they drew long silver wakes behind them.  As their hulls slid fast into the sand men leaped over the sides and onto the shore.  Marines with their muskets and sailors with their own small arms fell into ranks behind their officers.  As the moonlight glinted from weapons and white uniform facings they comprised a force any rational man would have thought twice about challenging._

But then Sir John Biltmore was not what all would have considered a rational man.

Meanwhile, on the beach Norrington stood tall and aimed a narrow gaze at the looming walls on the hillside above.  Ruddy light was reflected in a fine haze beyond, the fading smoke of the pirates' ill-fated assault.

"By company," Norrington called.  "Wait for my order."

Beside him Jack Sparrow peered upwards with wide eyes.  "Didn't look so bloody big the first time.  Oh, I'd be wary of the gate, if I were you."

"Oh?"

"We sort of blew it up.  I think they might be pluggin' the 'ole by now."

With a narrow look Norrington dismissed Sparrow's mutterings from his concerns.  Raising a long speaking cone before his mouth, the commodore inhaled a great breath then shouted towards the ramparts above.

"AHOY, the fort!  We are the _HMS Dauntless_!  Will Sir John Biltmore please show himself!"

"Oh, how very polite," Sparrow grumbled.

Silence.  Then a tall, heavy figure appeared on the battlements above, backlit by ruddy smoke.

"Most unusual," echoed the stentorian tones.  "You are rather a long way from home, sir.  What business has the British Royal Navy upon Cuban shores?"

Norrington visibly braced himself before taking the final verbal leap.  "I bear a warrant for Mister Thomas Fry on charges of murder and kidnapping, and further have reason to suspect the criminal incarceration of British citizens upon your grounds."

A moment, then Biltmore replied, "I really am not in the humor for this.  Forgive me if I don't indulge in a pointless game of point and counter-point."

He stepped back from view, then a spark of light flared above and the walls vomited thunderous gouts of flame.  A barrage of iron howled over the invaders' heads to slash the dark harbor into frothing foam just short of the _Dauntless' hull._

"DOWN!" roared Norrington.  "EVERYONE DOWN!"

Men toppled like dominoes into the sand as behind them the _Dauntles_s' entire starboard gun decks burst into a rippling roar.  Unlike Biltmore's little antiquated Spanish-built shore battery, the longer guns of a British First Rate simply punched out and pulverized the top of the hacienda walls.  Masonry exploded in a grey cloud of dust overhead and rubble pattered down like stony rain as the marines and sailors cheered.

Flat on his belly in the sand, Sparrow craned his neck to look up and said, "Impressive."

Then he found himself scrambling as marines and sailors lunged to their feet, nearly trampling him as they surged forward with fierce yells.  He was barely on his legs when hard hands seized him and propelled him forward like a recalcitrant child.

Glancing at the large marines to either side, Jack tried to shrug free.  "Easy, mates, no need to push.  Look, surely you don't need me, ay?  I'll only slow you down."

He might as well have been talking to a pair of oxen for all the reaction they gave, and he staggered as they shoved him ahead.  "Cretins," he grumbled.

Grappling hooks soared and dropped and gripped fast on the top of the shattered ramparts.  Instantly sailors and marines began swarming up the ropes like beads sliding up strings.  When Biltmore's men appeared above to shoot muskets over the side, marines still on the ground volleyed in return.  Norrington meanwhile shouted and swung his sword before breaking into the run at the head of another company of marines.  Sparrow scuttled in their midst, a quick look catching with particular interest upon the sword thrust through one marine's belt; his own cutlass, Jack realized and he veered quickly to the man's side as they ran.

Up the curving road they charged, towards the gate the _Pearl's crew had previously left in shambles.  Wisps of smoke hazed from within the compound and Sparrow grimaced in concern._

"Oh, Commodore!" he called.  "I'd really watch that gate!"

A shout from somewhere in front was swallowed up in a great _BOOM_.  Men scattered and dove to cover at either side of the lane.  Sparrow was a jump ahead of them, landing with a rolling dive that brought him up against the marine he had been shadowing.  A quick grab and he sprang up with his cutlass once more in hand.

The marine jerked his head up in shock, but Sparrow simply held down his free hand and said, "Up you go, lad."

The young man took the offered grip and then Sparrow found himself nearly forgotten as the marines became very busy with bigger things.  The biggest thing was the field cannon crouched smoking in the shattered gateway, its crew frantically stuffing cartridges and swinging rammers - but to no effect.  With a roar the marines charged and as they bowled the gun crew aside Norrington himself leaped to the cannon's wheels.  Shouting above the tumult he ordered other men to the caisson and they began pivoting the gun to face inside the compound.

"Sparrow - SPARROW, where are you?"

Jack jerked to awareness at that imperious summons, but Norrington was already bounding towards him.  Slashing his sword towards the captured cannon, the commodore cried, "You are gun captain here!  I want those guns on the walls silenced!"

"Me!"  Jack's eyes nearly started from his head.

"Yes, you!"  Norrington slid to a halt at his side, a queer hot gleam in his eyes.  "If I keep you busy, you won't have time for mischief, now will you?"

Propping his cutlass in the dirt and leaning on its hilt like a cane, Sparrow narrowed his gaze.  "What's to keep me from desertin' me post?"

"Nothing at all," said Norrington, and one side of his mouth quirked humorlessly.  "But know that I will shoot a deserter on sight."

Thus Sparrow found himself grimacing as he faced four equally nonplussed marines.  Abruptly gathering himself, Jack scowled and barked, "Look alive, ye swabs!  You, you're powder monkey.  You, rammer.  You, sponge.  You, prime.  Smartly now!"

The uproar rose to a fine chaos as marines and sailors surged over and through the walls to meet Biltmore's howling minions.  Gunfire popped above shouts and the clash of swords and Sparrow grinned gleefully as he touched off his gun with a window-rattling boom.  A wooden lean-to collapsed against the wall across the courtyard and Sparrow spun to glare at his gun crew.

"Elevation, man, we need elevation!"

Twice more the marines scuttled to Jack's orders and twice his gun bellowed and smashed the stone beneath Biltmore's cannons  But then a small, sizzling orb arced from the darkness to clang into the paving and roll directly beneath the cannon.

"RUN!" Sparrow screeched and he and his crew scattered in a panicked flurry of knees and elbows.

An instant later the granadoe detonated and the gun leaped on a burst of light.  It thudded back to earth at a dismal-looking angle, its caisson blown to kindling.

After shaking his head in a vain attempt to clear the ringing from his ears, Sparrow peered around to find his erstwhile gun crew prying themselves from behind shrubbery and rubble.  Counting all four heads still attached to their respective shoulders, he stood and smote his hands together.

"Nobly done, men!" he exclaimed.  "Now we'll need new orders.  Report to the Commodore, quickly now!"

That was the lovely thing about marines: they reacted instantaneously and without question to a proper voice of command.  Sparrow smiled contentedly as he watched them go trotting off into the smoke, muskets once on their shoulders.

Looking one last time at his disabled gun, he touched a somber salute to his brow.  "Sorry, old girl."

Then he cast a shrewd, keen look around at the merry chaos of sailors and marines soundly trouncing the minions of Sir John Biltmore.  Not a one of them was looking his way.  He would never find a more opportune moment than this.  Nimble as a monkey Jack turned and bounded away into the shadows.  Seconds later a door to the manor house opened and then shut, with no one the wiser that a pirate had just slipped inside.

***

TBC …

**_A/N:_**_ Yes, wellduh, you are correct, __Elizabeth__ would not blow on a spoonful of soup.  At least not in polite company. *G*_ But it was the best visual I could think of.  Katherine, you are also correct that having an Elizabeth and a Bess is perhaps unwise and potentially confusing.  I used "Bess" only because if felt right, and I guess by this point I'm just hoping that the fact that the two derivations of the same name are never mixed (i.e. __Elizabeth___ is never Bess) will help keep the two women from confusing readers too badly.  Good point to bear in mind for future writings, though.  Thanks to everyone who cares enough to offer honest thoughts!  :-)___

_Please keep watching, gentle readers - the next chapter will be up within a couple days!_


	29. Chapter 29 In Which Everything Happens ...

**PIRATES OF THE **CARIBBEAN******: THE AFRICAN STAR**

**By ErinRua**

CHAPTER 29

As the thunder and outcry of battle shook the courtyard, another struggle went on behind the stable and carriage shed.  The business of smashing munitions crates and powder kegs was proving much harder than Elizabeth had reckoned.  The seasoned oak did not give easily and the simple fact was, nothing in the life of a governor's daughter prepared her for swinging an ax like a lumberjack.  While Bess moved about the crowded room delivering her blows with vigorous ease, Elizabeth angrily puffed an errant strand of hair from her face and braced herself to try again.

"You'd _think -."  Thud went the ax and skittered dangerously to one side as the handle twisted in her hands.  "That I could manage something as simple as hitting a wooden box!"_

_CRACK_!  Bess' only response was another crate splintered, and a rumbling cascade of curious round munitions tumbled amongst her dodging feet.  Teeth clenched, Elizabeth tightened her grip, braced her stance and swung again.  This time sharp iron struck wood with a splintering whack and the top of her keg split from side to side.

"Finally!"

Now the floor of the powder magazine bore many spilling black heaps of gunpowder, as kegs split and tipped their lethal contents.  Elizabeth shouldered the ax and shot a quick glance out the door.  Someone might come, would surely come, given the rising crescendo of the pandemonium beyond their sight.

On impulse she dropped the ax by the door and grabbed a broken keg.  With a squeaky grunt she heaved it into her arms and began walking backwards - dribbling a gritty black trail about the room.  Bess looked up and her white teeth shown in wordless approval.  Around the tumbled room and across the floor Elizabeth poured her impromptu fuse, breathing relief as the keg became lighter in her grasp.  Watching her progress carefully she backed towards the door, feeling the weight lighten towards emptiness as the black flow slowed.  She back-stepped over the door-sill - and a voice spoke.

"'Ere, wot's this!"

Gasping she spun, keg flying from her arms to roll in a wooden clatter.  Two men stood slope-shouldered not fifteen feet away, one bearing an empty ammunition haversack clutched in one hand.

"Well …."  The second man's leering grin was visible in the smoky moonlight as he took a step towards her.  "Wot do we 'ave 'ere?"

"Escapees," sneered the first man.  "I think we oughts to stop 'em, aye?"

With a yelp she leaped for her ax, seizing it and swinging it wildly round - only to feel it wrenched from her hand with terrifying force, tumbling her out into the open.  Desperately she scrambled for footing, lunging back towards the steel door only to find one of the men there before her, grinning as she slid to a flailing halt.  She dodged the other way only to face the other man, now cackling as he held her ax in one hand.

"Where you goin', poppet?  Don't you wanna play wif' us?"

"I think NOT!"

Wheeling Elizabeth grabbed her broken keg from the ground, and with the whole force of her spinning body hurled it to thud into the man's middle.  As the man "oofed" and dropped the ax a wooden crack resounded from the doorway, and Elizabeth looked up to see the other thug standing glassy-eyed with the shattered remnants of a crate dangling around his neck.  Without a sound he toppled face-forward to reveal Bess standing grim-faced behind him.  The remaining man growled.

Instantly Elizabeth sprang for her nearly-forgotten dipper and swept it up in one hand.

"Stand where you are!" she shouted.  Desperately she blew into the dipper, nearly bouncing in her anxiety as the coals only glowed a dim, dull light.  "Not one more step!"

Again she puffed quickly, while the man left standing cocked his head in puzzlement.  "Missy, I don't know wot ye -."

"There!" she cried, as crimson light burst back into life, and she tossed the man a perfectly savage smile.  "One more step and I'll blow us all to kingdom come!"

The man Bess had felled was beginning to groan and roll over, but her whole attention remained on the embers she puffed frantically at once more.  Then the second man's eyes went wide as he suddenly realized what that frail glow in the girl's hands was.

"N-n-now, d-don't you - you put that down, missy!"  He stumbled as he backed up, seemingly too terrified to turn his back.  "You just mind yerself, there!  D- don't you -."

"Oh, but I am."  She stepped towards the powder magazine's steel door and felt herself nearly flying on a giddiness somewhere between triumph and madness, as the man continued backing away.  "Now the question is, do you want to be here when I do it?"

With a strangled screech the man spun and pelted away as fast as ever his legs could take him.  Bess' victim abruptly discovered his own powers of recuperation, scrambling after his mate on all fours like a monkey, before staggering upright to follow in a long-legged run.  Grinning from ear to ear, Elizabeth turned to see Bess' wry shrug.

"Dat take care of him. But I t'ink maybe we don't want to be here, either, eh?"

Elizabeth swallowed hard as she looked from her glowing ladle to the gritty spill of black gun powder trailing back into the stone building.  There really were an awful lot of explode-able things in there, now that she thought about it.

"No, I think not."

Giving a nod, Bess turned and picked up one last broken keg.  As Elizabeth kept watch, Bess began spilling a trail out the door and across the yard, away from the chaos to come.

***

Sword in hand Norrington slashed and parried and slashed again, the last vestige of doubt burned away the instant Biltmore had fired upon a ship bearing the Union Jack.  Traitor, villain, knave and criminal, Sir John was all of these and more.  What troubled Norrington now, however, was how the man himself managed to remain out of reach.

Almost as troubling as finding himself and three sailors suddenly at the foot of a set of stairs, cut off from their mates by a veritable flood of Biltmore's hoodlums.  He struck with cold savagery and never looked down as one ruffian fell to be replaced by another.  Then a howling cheer went up and over the walls came the very last thing he had expected to see - Will Turner and at least fifteen of the _Black Pearl_'s pirate crew.  Will saw him at the same instant and shouted to his comrades, and they spilled down the stairs from the walls in a snarling torrent.

"I thought I sent you away!" Norrington snapped, as Turner restrained his blade to slam a boot in an enemy's gut and the thug fell away.

"You did!"  Will flashed a white-hot grin.  "But I changed my mind!"

Gibbs, Tearlach, Original John and Irish John - even Anamaria boiled into the chaos.  For an instant Norrington simply stared at the spectacle of pirates, marines and sailors all battling side-by-side.

"What about them?"

"Oh."  Will shrugged, still grinning.  "They forgot something."  Glancing sharply about, he added, "Where's Jack?"

Where indeed?  Norrington turned towards the front gate, but while the now-disabled cannon remained tilted in place, of its captain there was no trace.

Will did not wait for an answer, leaping away into the confusion with the two Johns at his heels.  Across the courtyard still stood that hateful stable and towards it he now cut a determined path, with Irish John hacking valiantly beside him.  Original John preferred simpler tactics: even with one arm in bandages he could still heave and toss ordinary men as if they were sacks of seed.

Then the world blew up.

Night vanished in incandescent brilliance as a massive detonation flashed every face and cobble into stark crimson relief.  Concussion clubbed like a vast fist of air and high notes of shattering glass rang beneath the roaring boom as each window pane facing the explosion utterly disappeared. 

Suddenly every other thing ceased to matter.  Fighting, struggling, winning or surrender, all stopped as the combatants gawked in the dumbness of absolute shock.  Within the fiery, roiling belly of the beast several secondary explosions belched new gouts of sooty flame.  Some men found themselves sprawled on the paving stones not knowing how they got there.  Others reached numbly for hats that had blown quite away.  As a shuddering silence fell, the thunder of the explosion rolled in bounding echoes down the harbor and out to sea.  

All eyes stared as the billows of smoke and fire began to churn lower.  Beside the fountain Will Turner sat splay-legged on the paving stones, while Irish John peered around the fountain with the bandage of his earlier wound knocked askew and his blue eyes were huge.

"Ogun -."  Suddenly Will's face lit in a giddy grin and he tipped back his head to watch, flames reflected in his eyes.  "Ogun has come."

"If he has, he's got company."

Will twisted to look for the source of that voice, spying Anamaria staring at something over his head.  He turned back - and his face went utterly blank with awe.

"I think," said Anamaria, "Erzulie had a hand in things, too."

For in the dancing, ruddy light that bathed the courtyard, with flames leaping behind her, her hair tossing untamed as a Siren's and a skirt of fire and coals wrapping about her long legs … strode Elizabeth Swann.  Beside her walked a majestic black woman with the face of an African goddess, and not a man who saw dared move.  Perhaps not all were sure that these creatures were even mortal.

Yet Will stood, his eyes never leaving her.  His face was alight, his heart nearly breaking, and he did not remember moving, only that he must reach her.  Each step was an eternity, each breath was forever and then she was here, before him, with firelight in her hair and something in her eyes that threatened to drown him, but he would die willingly, if only she were near.

As her slender fingers lightly stroked his face, she said in the softest voice, "You took long enough."

"Elizabeth …."

Just to say her name was a hymn, a paean to the world's most infinite joys.  Then something exploded and shot up into the air, and he watched it fall tumbling back into the flames.  He frowned when he looked at her again.

"What on earth did you do?"

"Oh."  With a gamine look Elizabeth shrugged one dainty shoulder.  "I think that's what they call a powder magazine."

"The -  Elizabeth!  You could have been killed!"

"Posh.  We were very careful."  She lifted her chin haughtily.  "From what we could see, the distraction was well-needed."

"Powder … magazine?"

They both turned to see Commodore Norrington attempting to resettle his wig back on his head.  However, the poor hairpiece rather resembled a squashed cat and his face abruptly contorted in impatience.  In one motion he whipped off the wig and clapped his hat back onto short-cropped brown hair.

"Yes, I believe that's what it's called."  Elizabeth gave him a guileless smile.  "A little stone building where they keep all the things to shoot the cannons?"

Coughing to dislodge some peculiar obstruction, Norrington replied, "Ah - yes.  You would be quite correct.  Ah - it is good to see you well, Miss Swann."

"Why, thank you, Commodore."  Still smiling, she swept a hand to clasp her silent companion's fingers and drew her forward.  "Commodore Norrington, may I present my dear friend Bess?  Bess, this is the commander of Port Royal's fleet, Commodore James Norrington."

Bess' white smile was her only reply, but to his credit Norrington brought his heels together and offered a textbook-perfect bow.  The mangled wig he discreetly tucked behind his back.

"It is my honor, Miss Bess."  Straightening, his stern expression softened as he added, "Ladies, would you be so kind as to accompany me in liberating your friends?  I think after all their suffering that a first glimpse of your gentle faces would be great comfort."

Around them Biltmore's men had abandoned all hint of resistance.  As the shock of the explosion began to wear off the men stood or sat in meek silence, while the sailors and marines of the _Dauntless_ started collecting weapons and assuming positions of guard.  Elizabeth looked at Will and gave him a quick smile, enough to flip his heart into somersaults, but also a reminder that now was not the time for the reunion they might have wished.

"Of course, Commodore.  Bess and I will show you the way.  Come, gentlemen."

Although dressed in strange bright colors and a peasant blouse, with her hair wild about her shoulders and her bare feet shod only in straw sandals, she was once again the elegant daughter of Governor Swann.  Without prompting two marines fell smartly into step on either side, and Will watched as Norrington and the two women walked away.

"Hoy, mate … is that yer mot?"

Startled, Will looked to see Irish John and Original John both staring after Elizabeth with nearly identical looks of admiration.  His own grin threatened to split his skull.

"Yes.  That's Elizabeth."

Pulling in his chin in reflection, Irish John said, "Aye.  She'll do."

"All right!"  Anamaria's sharp cry broke the moment.  "Let's get what we came for."  Casting a baleful glance across the courtyard, she added, "Before the commodore gets the stars out of his eyes."

Will scowled at that, but then another realization struck.  "Biltmore.  Has no one seen Biltmore?"

Beyond Anamaria, Gibbs shook his grizzled head.  "Disappeared, lad.  Reckon he's makin' his break for it."

Eyes narrowed, Will said, "Not if I can help it.  Come on!"

"Hey!"  

He wheeled to face Anamaria.  "What?"

Her dark eyes were hard as she said, "We're not here to take any prizes that we can't carry in our two hands.  Understand?  If you're after anything else, you do it on your own."

"Fine."  Will firmed his grip on the sword he had until that moment forgotten he still carried.  "With any luck, maybe I'll find Jack for you, too!"

He wheeled away before Anamaria could reply, and burst into a run towards the house.

***

"Oops," muttered a voice from the shadows behind a toppled chair.  "Someone put out the lights."

Jack spat and grimaced as he pushed himself to sitting on the floor - a floor suddenly gritty with shattered glass and splintered window frames.  Not to mention any small objects that had been standing in front of said windows.  His foot struck something that rolled with a clink: he reached to pick up half of what had, until seconds ago, been a very lovely and expensive Chinese porcelain vase.

"Pity," he said, turning it in his hand before he tossed it over his shoulder to smash amongst other debris.

Then he gave a philosophical tilt of his head and clambered to his feet, cutlass in hand.  There he paused as he scowled at the wreckage dim beams of moonlight revealed.  Obviously the explosion had been outside but it had not been at all kind to this side of the house.  Whatever it was, however, things had quieted down notably in the moments since.  If everyone had blown themselves to bits in one fell swoop, all the better for a pirate with a mission.

Giving a last glance around the dark room he leaped over a fallen chair and away.  Deeper into the silent house he scuttled, past other rooms and mysterious passages.  Ever and anon a light glowed from another room, whereupon he slunk in careful steps from one shadow to the next, sword poised, before bolting forward once more.  Suddenly more light appeared before him, diffuse and golden and he found himself peering from an arched corridor into what appeared the main entry of the manor.

A vast room it was with thick rugs strewn across marble floors and softly gleaming lamps on walls and tables.  Comfortable-looking chairs crouched against the walls amidst carved side tables and elegant statuary.  Sparrow bent to squint at the frozen stone face of an ethereal maiden with an urn poised on her gracefully-carved shoulder.  His fingers lightly touched the smooth lines of the statue, and then he looked past and found himself gazing at a set of broad marble stairs that curved upwards to a shadowy second-floor balcony.

There seemed not a soul in the house, and with a last glance around he darted across the room and sprang onto the sweeping stairs.  Quick as a cat he was up to the next level and peering both ways along the balcony and down a long, hushed hallway.  Gleaming doors stood one just like the next, closed and no light beneath them.  Cautiously now, Sparrow chose a direction and skulked warily forward, his sword catching faint glints of ambient light and his feet making no sound on the polished hardwood floor.

Suddenly a latch clacked and there Sparrow was, nearly eyeball-to-eyeball with a grey-headed woman in a maid's cap.  Her eyes and mouth both sprang wide open - and he instantly pressed a finger to his lips.  Neither one breathed as they stared at each other in perfect silence, while Sparrow eased his sword out of sight behind his back and beamed a grin.

Tapping his finger to his lips once more, he then reached to ever-so-lightly touch her shoulder and gently pressed her back into the room.  Her huge eyes were the last thing he saw as he drew the door quietly shut between them.  He blew a gusty breath and resumed sneaking.

Then the corridor bent at a right angle and at its terminus a thin bar of light spilled through a door that had not quite latched.  From inside that room came a soft thud as of a closet being closed.  On tiptoe Sparrow slid to the door and the beam of light painted one eye and a fraction of his face as he looked within.  There he bared his teeth in a sly grin and ever so delicately he reached out … and pushed the heavy door open.

***

TBC …

**_A/N:_**_ Sorry, sorry, don't hurt me!  Next chapter will be up tomorrow!  That was just the best place I could find to drop in a chapter break.  Erm … really, mates, put down the torches and pitchforks …_


	30. Chapter 30 Night of the Fox

**PIRATES OF THE **CARIBBEAN******: THE AFRICAN STAR**

**By ErinRua**

CHAPTER 30

Will Turner would have appreciated the craftsmanship of those hinges, as they made not a whisper of sound.  The enormous room beyond appeared fine enough for a king, as candlelight shone softly on ornate furnishings, gilt-framed paintings, exotic statuary and heavy claret curtains tied back with gold cords.

Sparrow stood in the sudden spill of light and the first real noise was a sharp clack as he tapped the blade of his cutlass against the open door.  The room's occupant spun towards him - and Sparrow stepped slowly forward, sword idly coming to rest on his shoulder.

"Ahh, Sir John," he drawled.  "We meet again.  And where might a gentleman such as yourself be bound on a night like this?"

For it was clear, as the big man's face flushed with rage, that he was indeed preparing for flight.  He was dressed in a tricorn hat and rich green _justacorps_ coat, while cabinets hung half open about the room and on the bed a large satchel lay open, hastily stuffed with clothes.

"How dare you?" Biltmore snarled, seeming to swell and tower over Sparrow's lean form like a bear rising to full height.  "Get out of my house!"

Sparrow's eyes gleamed wickedly above his grin as he sidestepped along the foot of the broad bed.  "I'm thinkin' you're not to be the one givin' orders 'ere, mate."

"Damn you - take what you want and get out!  Here!"

Biltmore ignored the silent warning of Jack's free hand on the pistol in his sash, the larger man fumbling inside his waistcoat to draw forth a large silk purse.  He flung it to hit the floor with a heavy clank and slide skittering towards Sparrow's feet.  The pirate planted the toe of one boot on the purse, but did not otherwise move.

"And this!"

The big man surged towards the bed and snatched a small wooden casket from beside his bag and flung that, too.  It burst upon the floor in a scattering spill of gold and jewels.

"Take it all!" raged Biltmore.  "Take the whole damned house!  You've won, Sparrow!  Take your victory, damn you sir, and may you live to choke on it!  Heaven save us from the day when the likes of you can rise up and prevail against their natural betters!"

"Natural betters?"  Sparrow's eyebrows rose.  "Oh, thank you for puttin' me in me place."

Biltmore fairly seethed in impotent fury, his heavy face sagging as his eyes grew ugly and small.  "You know nothing.  You ARE nothing!  If you kill me here and now, you'll still be the same crawling, conniving, petty little thief you've always been."

Abruptly he seized the front of his waistcoat and ripped it open, exposing the ruffled silk shirt beneath.  "Shoot me now, Jack Sparrow!  I'm not afraid of death or any of your kind!"

Eyes wide, Sparrow twisted his wrist to swing his sword in a slow arc.  "Have you ever considered the stage?  You 'ave a flair for drama.  Just the same …" He stirred the spill of jewelry with his toe and his gold teeth glinted in response.  "I'd rather leave you alive."

His dark glance cooled as he haughtily lifted his chin, raised his sword and posed to stare down its steely length directly into Biltmore's eyes.  "I want you to know what you've lost.  The diamond, if you please."

The stillness nearly crackled as Sparrow stood straight as a bayonet with leveled steel shimmering between them.  Somewhere downstairs a muted voice shouted and was answered, and a sound of breaking echoed up along the corridor.

Jack's eyes gleamed with a mocking light.  "Oops.  Looks like the lads are 'ere," he said.

Biltmore stared back, his cheeks mottled in stifled rage.  "Damn you …."

"Oh, Sir John?"  The sword waggled in an imperious gesture as Sparrow's tone took on a taunting note.  "I'm 'olding the sword, remember?"

The big man was trembling as if taken with some strange ague and his breath whistled through his nostrils as he reached into the breast of his waistcoat.  Sparrow's eyes were very bright as he watched - and Biltmore lunged sprawling across the great bed.

As Sparrow spun to face him Biltmore rolled like a breaching whale to come up on the other side.  From somewhere he swung a glittering length of silver and pearl and with a roar he flung the scabbard aside.  Light flamed on the metal of his dress sword.  Sparrow back-pedaled fast into the greater part of the room and Biltmore followed like a juggernaut with a blade.  Steel struck steel with a ringing screech as Sparrow parried and disengaged and leaped away, putting a corner of the great bed between them.

"Really, mate, is this completely necessary - YOW!"

He bounded across the mattress an inch ahead of Biltmore's slashing lunge, his boots stomping pillows in his flight.  A fox and a bull they might have been, one roaring and savage as he scattered rugs and statuary in the torrent of his wrath, the other nimble and quick as a wink.  Blades met and clashed and flashed steely lightning as their contest tumbled around the room.  Across the floor and over a divan they fought and behind a tall wardrobe that Jack kicked to fall with a splintering crash.

"Whoops!" he yelped, and gleefully vaulted over an upholstered chair just as Biltmore sliced the cushions so they bled white batting.

Back across the room the contest raged, until Jack's leaping spin around a bedpost warded a blow from Biltmore that nearly hacked the carved wood in two.  A booted kick flung Biltmore's satchel full in his face and when he had batted it aside Jack was on the other side of the room, grinning fiercely with blade in hand.  The pirate dodged behind another chair and kicked it into Biltmore's path, but the big man jumped with surprising agility and drove forward in a hacking fury.

Through it all Jack leapt and fought with savage delight.  A vase of peacock feathers exploded in a flurry of blue and green.  A mirror fell with a silvery smash.  Jack hopped three desperate jumps with one foot stuck through an oversized African basket, but upon his recovery a curtain drifted to the floor in two severed pieces.  Ere long the bull found himself sorely pressed and at last gave ground to the slashing steel fang of the fox.  Seconds later the open door stood at hand - and Biltmore wheeled to bolt for escape.

_CLANG!_

The big man went rigid as a lamppost and his sword clattered from his hand.  Eyes blank he slowly pivoted around, to topple face-down with a shattering thud.

In the subsequent stillness Jack looked to see Will Turner standing framed in the doorway.  The lad cocked his head in an expression of question, still holding a large brass cuspidor in one hand and his sword in the other.

"A spittoon, Will?"

Will shrugged and dropped it into a nearby chair.  "It seemed a good idea at the time."

A growling groan captured their attention as Biltmore rolled heavily onto his side.  Sparrow's gaze was bleak as he stepped over the fallen man and placed one foot against his shoulder.  With a shove he flopped Biltmore onto his back.  Biltmore blinked, and then expression returned to darken his features.  Straightening up, Sparrow lowered his sword to hover the shining tip over the froth of lace at Biltmore's throat.  

"Damn you, Sparrow," Biltmore rasped.

Looking down the shining blade, Sparrow simply beamed a gold-touched smile.  His tone nearly purred as he said, "The African Star … if you please."

Biltmore's lace shirtfront quivered with each breath and his face flushed to a most unhealthy hue, cheeks shuddering.  But the black eyes staring down into his were unfathomable as ink.  Slowly, jerkily, as if moved by a power other than his own, his hand moved to the brocade breast of his coat and drew forth a small rosewood casket.

A cold smile spread across Sparrow's face.  He ever so neatly adjusted his stance, the tip of his blade rising slightly to touch the doughy folds of Biltmore's chin.

"Mister Turner.  Would you be so kind?"

Will cautiously knelt, and as he snatched the box away Biltmore spat, "Blacksmith," as if the very name of Will's profession were an abomination.  However, when Sparrow took the little casket, the young smith rose and stepped into position.  His eyes narrowed and his lip curled as he brought his own blade to caress the prone man's fleshy neck.

"At least I don't pretend to be a gentleman," Will said.  "_Sir_ John."

Sparrow meanwhile seemed to forget anyone else was in the room as his gaze fixed on the polished wood he held.  He set his sword on a small table beside him and with slow, almost ritualistic care he cradled the little box in both hands.  A moment, a breath, and then he flicked the tiny brass latch open and tilted back the lid.

The African Star.  There should have been a sound for that silent burst of radiance.  There should have been a ring of high silvery bells to mark the shards of ancient light that danced across Jack Sparrow's face and glittered in his dark eyes.  The magnificent gem both reflected light and seemed to glow with a soft incandescence of its own.  With the daintiest touch he plucked the precious thing out, and his hand trembled ever so slightly as new light shattered in brilliant fragments before his gaze.

He was wholly unaware of Will Turner watching him, quirking an eyebrow in curiosity, or of Biltmore's wheezing bulk sprawled before him.  Here in his grasp was perfection.  Here was beauty beyond measure; here was something so indescribably flawless that he nearly forgot to breathe as it filled his sight and his soul.

"Jack …"

He felt the gem warming to his touch, melding to the palm of his hand more dearly than ever a woman had touched.  If ever there was love for a cold hard thing, it burst now in a pirate's heart, capturing him in the bottomless shimmer of one perfect diamond.

"Jack!"

Sparrow started and looked up as if jolted from a deep dream.  Will inclined his head towards the door.

"We should go.  The commodore will want to see this filth."

"Ah … yes, of course."

Blinking back to awareness, Sparrow hastily stuffed the gem into an inside pocket of his waistcoat.  Then in his other hand he dangled the empty casket.

Leaning with a chilly smile, he said, "Let's just say you sank a very … expensive sloop."

Sparrow let the box fall to strike Biltmore's silk-sheathed chest and tumble to the carpet.  A strangled growl seemed the only sound the big man could make.  Will stepped back and Jack reclaimed his sword as their captive rolled heavily to hands and knees.  Spittle gleamed on the man's lips as he lurched to one knee and his eyes were glassy with hatred.  Jaw set, Will stepped back, keeping sharp steel between him and what might now be a madman.  Biltmore's gaze lifted - then abruptly sharpened.

"LOOK OUT!"

Jack's shout and a gunshot shattered Will's hearing at the same instant a body slammed into him full force.  Staggering, Will wind-milled backwards to trip over the carpet-edge, whereupon he fell flat on his back.  Yet even as he heaved himself to sitting, in the doorway stood the hulking figure of First Mate Thomas Fry, a smoking pistol in hand.

Biltmore crouched, staring in grim fixation.  Jack still stood, but he was rotating drunkenly towards Will now, his dark eyes blank and unfocused.  He took just one step - and all the hinges of his joints seemed to come undone.  Without a word he collapsed.

"NO!" Will cried, a wild slash of his sword halting Biltmore in mid-lunge.

Instantly the big man charged for the door, he and Fry vanishing in the dark corridor beyond.  Panic-stricken, Will scrambled to the fallen pirate's side, yet found himself afraid to disturb that awkward tangle of legs, sash and bead-bangled hair.  Any moment now Sparrow would sit up with that crazed, bright grin.  Any moment …

"Jack?"  The sulfuric reek of gun-smoke burned Will's nostrils.  "Oh, God …."  

Scattered coins and jewelry glinted on the floor all around Jack's motionless form.  Gripping the pirate's shoulder, Will felt muscle and bone under thin cotton, but no strength, no life.  Carefully he pushed Sparrow onto his side.  Jack's head rolled so that his face was bathed in candlelight, but the hawkish features remained utterly still.

With an inarticulate sound Will seized his sword, lunged to his feet and pelted out into the dark corridor.  Downstairs he could hear raucous voices and harsh laughter and something fell with a clattering crash.  Light shone ahead from the great hall on the floor below, where pirates careened about with arms full of loot.  But as he skidded around a corner on slick shoes, Will held only one thought.  He struck a new burst of speed as he spied the great staircase ahead, and in its shadows skulked two dark figures.

"Stop them!" he shouted, seizing the balcony railing to alert those beneath.

Fry and Biltmore bolted.  Down the last step the big men leapt and bowled straight through three of Jack's crew, scattering pirates and plunder across the marble floor in a jangling, cursing tangle.  Will leapt to the head of the stairs where he swung onto the polished banister, slung his feet up and slid down to the ground floor in an instant.

There he scrambled for new footing, even as two more pirates stepped into the two fugitives' hurtling path and were knocked tumbling.

"MOVE!" he bellowed and plunged through the astonished crew with his sword brandished high.

Then a flash of red appeared where moonlight spilled through the wide front doors, silvery light broken suddenly by many shadows.  Red coats - Royal Marines!

Trying to double his frantic race Will gave one last shout.  "STOP THEM!"

A shriek went up and shouts of dismay and command, as a thrashing tangle of bodies in the foyer suddenly surged around a prodigious amount of splintering and breaking.  Then a familiar voice rose in fine, high anger: "How DARE you!" and a resounding clang was followed by sudden silence.

Will slid to a halt before the astonished faces of several marines, Commodore Norrington and Elizabeth, although her expression was plainly furious.  Beside them gaped a hole that used to be a tall, arched window.  At their feet a heavy lump was trying to crawl to its feet and as it raised its head, blood ran down the man's brow.

"That," spat Elizabeth, "is First Mate Thomas Fry.  You may arrest him, Commodore!"

Norrington looked at Fry then looked at Elizabeth, standing in her gypsy-dress with fire in her eyes and a large, suddenly formidable-looking silver tray in her hands.  A jostling among the redcoats revealed tall, dark Bess and the plump girl, Sarah, nudging their way into the room, each bearing a fearsome scowl of her own.

Being a man of good sense the commodore responded crisply.  "Certainly, Miss Swann.  Marines!"

Yet before the redcoats could respond two massive fists seized Fry's lapels and Original John jerked the heavy man to his feet.  Fry's legs seemed rubberized as he sagged in the huge pirate's grip.

"You stole them poor girls," Original John rumbled.

Beside him a pirate with a bandaged head leaned in and the burr of Ireland bore a brittle edge: "We ought ta break yer bleedin' neck."

And just like that the Irishman's fist shot out and cracked Fry square on the jaw.  The first mate of the _Royal Venture went limp, whereupon the two pirates let him flop to the floor._

"Where's Biltmore?"  Will's hot stare was inches from Norrington's face as he turned.

"Is that who that lunatic was?"  Norrington frowned as much from Will's untoward physical proximity as from the bluntness of the question.  Rather unfortunate aspects of Jack Sparrow seemed to have rubbed off on the young blacksmith.  "I've marines after him as we speak, Mister Turner.  He'll not escape this time."

When Will neither replied nor changed expression, Norrington eased a step back.  "Turner, I assure you -."

"Do you have a surgeon in your crew?"

"Do - why, yes, of course.  But he's still aboard ship."

Immediately Will stepped back, his eyes ink-black and his chiseled young face suddenly far too stiff.  "We may need him.  If Jack is still alive."

Elizabeth gasped and flung one hand to her mouth.  "What happened?"

Will's mouth contorted as his gaze dropped to Fry, now hanging groggily between two marines.  "He happened."

"Where?"

He looked to Elizabeth once more, and suddenly his eyes were a-swim with anguish.  "Upstairs."

Then he turned away, shouldering through the gathering throng into the fire-lit darkness outside.  Serving tray sagging in her hands, Elizabeth watched him go, before she spun the opposite direction.

With a feline squeal of rage she swung the tray high and brought it down with a ringing bang on Thomas Fry's already-battered head.  In the next breath she was running towards the great staircase, her bright skirts gathered up in one hand.  A silent shadow was Anamaria slipping from the mob to follow.

Behind them, Norrington gestured irritably for his men to drag Fry out for safekeeping.  Then it occurred to him that he was facing numerous pirates bearing armloads of plunder.

"Now, see here," he said sternly.  "You men can't simply march about pilfering whatever you please, as if -."

"Ah, Commodore, sir?"

Norrington found himself facing a stocky, grizzled pirate with graying sideburn whiskers and an annoying grin.  Oddly, the man seemed familiar.

"And who are you?"

"Gibbs, sir." The old seaman touched a knuckle to his forehead.  "First mate aboard the _Black Pearl_.  And you'd not want to be tellin' these lads that, just now."  His grin widened, squinting his eyes nearly shut.  "They might not take it very kindly."

Kindly did not describe the glares Norrington was getting, and for that matter the two remaining women were giving him rather annoyed looks.  "Do I know you?"

"Once, per'aps.  But that was another time."  With a hard, bright grin Gibbs turned away and raised his voice in a rough shout.  "Here, mates, let's get on with it!  If the cap'n has took his last voyage, let's make it a _rich_ haul!  Take what you can!"

"GIVE NOTHIN' BACK!" roared the response.

***

TBC …

**_A/N:_**_ Next chapter will be up tomorrow!  Only two more chapters to go …_

_Lilianna__, you are quite correct that __Elizabeth__'s use of an ax to smash open kegs of gunpowder was risky.  If steel strikes metal or stone it can indeed create a spark.  A flintlock pistol or musket works on that very principle: pulling the trigger drops the lock, which snaps the flint to strike the steel frizzen, creating a spark that ignites the powder in the gun.  In Elizabeth's situation, it was not so much the spilled black powder that she had to worry about, as that would just burn with a big smoky *whump* and probably give some ugly burns.  However, the stuff confined in kegs and grenades … Well, we saw what happened.  _So your memory of chemistry was correct, and ___Elizabeth__ got very lucky. :-)_


	31. Chapter 31 Ogun

**PIRATES OF THE **CARIBBEAN******: THE AFRICAN STAR**

**By ErinRua**

CHAPTER 31

Finding Jack was simple; Elizabeth simply looked for the only lighted room on that floor.  However, as she approached the open doorway her heart seemed stuck fast in her throat.  Her pace slowed in dread as she neared that spill of golden light - and there Jack was.

He lay on his side, his tangled hair and all its trinkets spilling from beneath his dingy red head scarf.  Around the ungainly sprawl of his body, gold coins and scattered jewelry glinted, some on thick Turkish carpet and some on polished floor.  She saw no movement, no twitch of expression on high cheekbones or bearded chin.  Almost she could imagine he was simply passed out drunk among his ill-gotten spoils.  Almost.

"Jack?" she whispered.

Not so much as the flicker of an eyelid.  Sudden movement startled her, but it was Anamaria, pushing past her into the room.  Elizabeth followed as if drawn by a string and both women knelt to either side of the fallen man.  Mouth tight, Anamaria brusquely grabbed Jack's shoulder and rolled him limply onto his back.

"Damn fool."  Anamaria's tone was dark as the deep stillness in her eyes.

"There's no blood."  Elizabeth looked to Anamaria's grim face.  "Shouldn't there be blood?"

"Not always," was her clipped reply, the lilt of the islands taking a hard, practical edge.  Briskly she pressed one button after the other undone, until Jack's waistcoat fell open across his chest.  "Small weapon like a pistol, the bullet don' go all the way through.  Sometimes it just punches a little hole and they bleed inside."

Elizabeth watched in wretched helplessness as Anamaria spread the open V of Jack's dingy white shirt, still revealing no wound.

"He's here because of me," she said in soft misery.

"He's here because he's Jack," Anamaria said tartly.  "Always thinks he has a dozen angles planned, always thinks he's three steps ahead of the othah man."

Sinking back on her heels, Elizabeth folded her useless hands in her lap. "Usually he's right."

Anamaria's glance came up quick and sharp as a blade, but softened as she held Elizabeth's eyes.  "Aye.  Usually.  Don' blame yourself, girl.  Jack Sparrow lives as he pleases.  If this be his end, it's bettah than a rope."

And just like that, Jack's eyes popped wide open.  He sucked a huge, wheezing breath and as both women gasped he abruptly sat bolt upright.

"Jack!" they cried together, and Anamaria added, "Damn you, Jack!"

"We thought you were dead!" Elizabeth echoed.

Sparrow blinked and cast a befuddled scowl around the room.  "Am I not?"

He flinched back from Anamaria's suddenly seething glare as she spat, "Not unless I strangle you with my bare hands!"

Still frowning in apparent confusion, Sparrow's dark gaze flicked from one woman to the other.  Unspeaking, he raised his hands to gingerly pat about his chest.  He blinked, and patted the lower part of his chest harder.  Then of a sudden he began clawing and pulling at his clothes as if a hot coal had just leapt inside.

"Jack, what's wrong?" cried Elizabeth.

But Sparrow was unheeding as he scrabbled desperately at his shirt and waistcoat.  Three second later he abandoned that frenzy and lurched to his knees, where he began pawing just as frantically amongst the jewels and coins strewn around him.  Meanwhile both women simply stared aghast.

"No -." Sparrow managed one strangled word, and that seemed all he could say as he scattered gold and gems willy-nilly. "No … No …"

Anamaria's alarm was nearing panic as she shouted, "Jack, what is WRONG with you?"

Instantly Jack stopped, crouched on hands and knees as he lifted his shaggy head to reveal a look of absolute desolation.  "The African Star … it's gone …"

"The what?"  Anamaria peered at him suspiciously.

"My diamond …" he whimpered.

He sank back on his haunches and stared blankly at the small fortune flung across the floor, the very image of utter dejection.  Numbly he brought a hand to his breast, reaching inside his waistcoat in one last, futile effort.  A moment passed, in which he twiddled a finger through a ragged tear in the material that could only be a bullet hole.  He withdrew his hand with something pinched in his fingers like bread crumbs.

A sigh escaped from him that seemed to come from the very tips of his toes.  "It was so beautiful …"

Frowning in puzzlement, Elizabeth reached and turned his hand for her inspection.  To her surprise his fingers glittered with a fine, gritty dust and pinched between them were three or four larger shining bits.  It was the only evidence left of the great gem that had turned a bullet and saved his extraordinarily lucky life.

"You came here for a diamond?"  Anamaria's scowl was beginning to look deadly.

"But you don't understand."  Sparrow's look and tone was very much that of a heartbroken boy.  "It was perfect."

"It's a bloody rock!" Anamaria exploded, and her hand flashed to his cheek with a resounding crack that made Elizabeth wince in sympathy.

However, he failed to react beyond the tilt of his head and Anamaria fumed on.  "Damn you, Jack Sparrow!  You nearly got yo'self killed for a little bit o' shine that you'd sell at the first chance, just like every othah fancy trinket you've ever laid hands on!"

"No …" Despondency stole the vigor from his voice as he studied the glittering bits that were all that remained of the African Star.  "This one was perfect."

A sudden muffled popping sound drifted from the darkness beyond the tall windows.  Jerking to attention Elizabeth gasped, eyes wide.

"Will!" Then she scrambled to her feet.

"Will what?" asked Jack.

"He's gone after Sir John - oh!"  Three more pops sounded and Elizabeth wheeled in a flurry of ember-colored skirts.

"Wait!" Jack yelped.  "You can't -."

But she was already gone, sandals slapping out into the corridor and away.  Jack sighed.

"You can't do anything against muskets with nothing but an Indian skirt," he finished to the empty doorway.

"Don' bet on that," Anamaria retorted.  "She already blew up Biltmore's powdah magazine."

Jack's black eyes grew wide.

***

Will ran through the smoky darkness as fast as his long legs could carry him.  Past the crippled cannon that Jack and the marines had crewed, through the shattered gate and down the bending lane towards the wharf below.  He could see the shapes of four Royal Marines, but they were all huddled behind a stack of crates and barrels on shore at the foot of the quay, their muskets at the ready.  As he bounded down a shortcut from the road towards the sandy shoreline a musket banged - but the report came from out on the water, not from the marines.  Instantly the marines fired a staccato volley back, but to no visible effect.

At the end of the quay stood the dark silhouette of the _Royal Venture_, swaying gently against a glittering backdrop of moon-washed sea.  Further out in mid-harbor the _Dauntless stood silently waiting, a ghostly shape against the rising moon._

In a slither of sand and gravel Will reached the bottom and leaped tussocks of grass onto the causeway leading to the quay.  The marines looked up from reloading their muskets as he plunged into a crouch among them, panting from his run.

"Where is he?"

"Out there."  One of the marines pointed with his ramrod. "'e's got in the ship's arms locker, looks like.  Every time we stick our 'eads out, 'e takes a shot at us.  Like shootin' at ducks in a bleedin' barrel."

Will peered at the ship standing moored out yonder, its bare masts swaying gently against the night sky.  "How did he get out there?"

"We lost him, like, run off in the dark and all.  Didn't rightly know where 'e got to, until Bob, 'ere, heard 'im thumpin' around." 

Jaw tight, Will eyed the long expanse of empty wood and stone that led out onto the water to the _Royal Venture's berth.  It was perhaps seventy-five yards of completely exposed distance … but if a man were quick …_

"Cover me!"

"Wot?"  Incredulously the marine and his mates stared at the young blacksmith.

Grimacing impatiently, Will pointed and said, "If he shoots, you shoot back. I'm going after him."

"You're daft!"

Will's grin was quicksilver.  "It works for Jack!"

Then he vaulted over the nearest crate and landed running, out into space and moonlight and the whispering voice of the sea.  His shoes smacked stone paving as he reached for every ounce of speed he possessed, his sword a mere flicker as he ran.  Ahead of him something winked and boomed from the _Royal Venture_'s rails, and was answered by a rippling volley from behind him.  Again the blink and bang - Biltmore obviously had several weapons ready at hand.  In seconds the green, reeking miasma of the slave ship overwhelmed the tang of the sea and tall masts loomed over Will's head.

The gangplank was gone, undoubtedly kicked over when Biltmore boarded, but Will skidded to a stop only long enough to stuff his sword through his belt.  Then he leaped across the space between wharf and ship to collide with the swaying hull.  He hung by his arms from the rail, slick shoes scrambling on the ship's side as he struggled for purchase.  _BOOM - splinters burst from the painted wood beside him, as by sheer strength he hauled himself up and over the rail, rolling to drop hard onto the shadowed deck.  Another shot burst in a dirty orange blossom and Will saw his quarry, a dark figure hunched in the port bow.  Four shots within a minute - how many more weapons did Biltmore have loaded?_

The clatter of an empty musket being dropped answered that question, as Biltmore's heavy shape lurched up and plunged from view beyond the foremast.  Teeth clenched, Will sprang to his feet and swept his sword to hand.

"Biltmore!" he shouted.  "I've come to arrest you!"

A thudding of feet cued him to the big man's movements and Will was after him like a wolfhound.  Forward he leapt to an open hatch that breathed the ghastly pall of misery and death.  It was, he realized, the same hatch by which he had first entered _Royal Venture to strike the shackles off Biltmore's pitiful slaves.  Before Sir John had made the mistake of choosing Elizabeth Swann as his prize._

Into the bowels of the ship Will descended.  He remembered its darkness from before and was now startled to see a dull gleam of lanterns aft along the 'tween-decks.  Cautiously he advanced through the empty hold, hearing the restless creaks of the ship around him and feeling the fetid shadows press close.

Where was Biltmore?  

As one wary step followed the other the cloying air seemed to thicken in his throat.  He stifled the urge to cough, the tip of his sword glinting as lantern light grew stronger.  Even empty of slaves, the atmosphere below decks had a noisome texture, clinging in his mouth and sinuses like oily smoke.

"Well …" The rumbling voice echoed oddly amongst the ship's wooden bones.  "The blacksmith, again.  Was my hospitality so warm the first time that you can't stay away?"

As he spoke, Biltmore emerged into view, lantern light playing on the gleam in his eyes, the bitter smile creasing his face.  A ruddy glint moved and revealed itself as an ornate sword dangling in his right hand.

"I'm bringing you to justice!" Will shot back, warily advancing towards his quarry.

In this cramped space below decks Biltmore fairly loomed, a big man who nonetheless moved lightly, elegantly.  He might have been clad for an evening stroll in his silk waistcoat, gold-embroidered knee-length coat and immaculate white stockings.  Yet as he eased forward, the jeweled sword in his grasp was as deadly as any a lesser man might bear.

"Justice … such an arbitrary thing.  Whose justice, boy?  Yours?  God's?  The Crown's?"

"You kidnapped Elizabeth Swann."  The slow flame of fury began to rise in Will's throat.  "How many others have you taken and tormented?  How many lives have you destroyed?"

"Are you so without fault that you may judge?"  Biltmore stepped into a slow, pacing half-circle and Will instinctively mirrored him.  "Are you so pure of thought and deed that you count yourself above other men?"

As Will brought his sword _en guarde he felt a scalding new emotion rising within.  Eagerly he embraced it, willing it to a molten heat that flowed into his veins and tingled in his practiced grip of his blade_

"Surrender now, Sir John.  A hundred marines will be here before you know it."

"Surrender? For what?  To face your commodore and the certainty of a noose?"  The big man's almost-handsome smile was hard as chilled brass.  "I think not."

With a wild cry he charged and suddenly Will was fighting for his life.  Steel smote steel in a ringing screech that had every ounce of Biltmore's heavy frame behind it.  But as the blacksmith parried and disengaged he gave a shout of his own.  Will Turner was lithe and savage and a master of the blade, and he knew no fear.  There in that dank place, where the groaning ghosts of unhappy legions whispered in the dark, he spun in the deadly dance of the sword.  He fought for honor and the woman of his dreams.  He fought for innocent souls in a dank, dark prison.  And he fought in memory of a bonny little sloop and the dead she bore down to the depths.

Forward and back between the ship's timbered knees their blades flickered and rang.  Advance and retreat, parry and thrust, their battle raged without words.  Step and leap and turn again, they flung huge shadows against the bulkheads.  Fire sprang from steel and danced in fey eyes, and Will grinned a fierce white grin as his sword bit cloth and flesh.

For an instant they paused, Biltmore clutching his left arm with rage suffusing his face and twisting his mouth.

"Yield," Will said, his eyes bright and hard behind the length of his waiting sword.  "Yield, and you might find mercy in the law that you never gave your victims."

Biltmore's reply was a snarling lunge that drove Will back on the defensive.  Ruddy light danced and shadows leapt as steel sang and rang in the noisome belly of the ship.  A slashing cut was Biltmore's answer to his own wound and then Will circled more cautiously as blood darkened his sleeve.

Somewhere above feet thudded on the weatherdeck and distant voices rang sharply, their words indistinct.  Unaccountably, Biltmore began to chuckle.  Will's eyes narrowed as he side-stepped in readiness for attack or defense.

"Fool of a boy," said Biltmore, and again he gave that gravely laugh.  "Only fire awaits me … and now it will have you, too."

Only then did Will become aware of what that dancing, ruddy light really was.  Only then did he realize that the reek sunk into the slave ship's wooden flesh was overlaid with the corrosive tang of bitter smoke.  Recognition smote him like a wall of ice water.

"Ogun …" he breathed.

It seemed that a voice spoke as if from a vast, hollow distance:  "_You a man wid two shadows, son.  Love an' war…But you listen Erzulie when Ogun want what his …"_

"Will, get out of there!"

A familiar shout rang through the hold.  Will spun as a thudding noise revealed Jack Sparrow, a murky figure half-falling down the ladder at the far end.  Sparrow's eyes were huge as moons, and he gestured frantically with both arms towards the ladder.

"Fire - magazine - explode - run!"

Overhead footsteps pounded away into sudden silence, voices ringing ever more dimly on the quay outside.  The marines had fled already.  The breath burned in Will's throat as he turned to face Biltmore, now a hulking dark shape against the growing glow of fire in the decks below.  To let this man go now … to deny the justice that his villainy demanded ...

"Too late, gentlemen!"  Biltmore boomed, and his laughter battered the shadows back amongst themselves.  "Welcome to hell!"

That laughter followed Will as he wheeled and bolted for all he was worth.  He heard the heavy feet pounding behind him, saw Jack's eyes go wide in front of him, but before he could stop or turn Jack was past him in a furious flash.  Staggering, Will caught the ladder and looked back.

A strange, deadly tableau greeted his eyes.  Firelight danced against weathered timbers as Sir John stood queerly frozen, his expression blank with unutterable surprise.  Facing him was Jack Sparrow, who stared back as implacably as a statue.  Then Sparrow's arm jerked and his sword came away, stained in something darker than firelight.  His gaze was coal black as he stepped slowly back, watching while Biltmore's legs buckled and dropped the big man to his knees.

"For the _Lady Elizabeth," said Jack.  "And good men gone."_

Then flames belched from a lower hatchway, throwing the empty hold into leaping crimson shadow.  As one, Sparrow and Will spun and fled, leaving Sir John Biltmore, youngest son of Lord James Biltmore the Third, alone to face Ogun's fiery embrace.

Will's heels flashed not an inch ahead of Jack's face as they shot up the ladder into the open night.  Like darts they flew across the deck and over the side, Will staggering as he landed badly on the quay below.  Jack seized him by one arm and hauled him bodily back to full speed, the two of them hurtling side-by-side down the wharf towards shore.  Behind them the _Royal Venture seemed to fill with a macabre light, a glowing and flickering that back-lit hatches and portholes with a churning, ghastly radiance._

As their flying feet struck sandy beach there was an instant of perfect silence.  Then a shattering white flash smote the entire bay, blinding the nighttime world with the brilliance of a new-born sun.

***

When at last the final echoes rumbled out upon the sea, when at last stunned lungs could suck in life-giving air, when at last night returned and dazed eyes could see at all, Will Turner slowly sat up.  Sand gritted between his fingers as he braced himself to stare back.  The quay was naught but rubble while sooty, guttering flames marked all that remained of John Biltmore and the _Royal Venture_.

Then he turned to stare at the man beside him, who sat shaking his head as if to dislodge something in it.  Scowling, Sparrow then looked at his hands and vigorously shook sand from them.  Smoldering firelight painted the sharp bones of his face and glinted on the baubles in his hair and goatee - and his eyes popped wide as Will's fist seized the front of his shirt.

"You're not dead!"

"Not recently."

Sparrow flinched again as a flying whirl of skirts swept upon them and someone dropped like a fallen flower between them.  Her eyes were huge and luminous as she stared at Will, as if fearful he might vanish on the next breath of wind.  Her smooth brow furrowed as she lightly touched the torn, bloody sleeve at his side.

"You're hurt!"

"I'm all right," he said, and then his young features abruptly twisted to an expression of heartbreaking sadness.  "Elizabeth … I'm so sorry."

"For what?" As she lifted her fingers to trace the line of his cheek, her white smile became tremulous and firelight shimmered in her eyes.  "You're here."

With a sigh Will relaxed and let his ringing head sink into her embrace, his forehead resting on her slender shoulder as her fingers slid into his hair.  Suddenly it was a very good thing to simply sit right here, in the smoking, wreckage-strewn sand of a foreign beach, for Elizabeth, his Elizabeth was with him.

Beside them, Jack frowned down at the fist still imbedded in his shirtfront.  When it failed to let go he then lifted his aggrieved glance to Elizabeth, but she of course was too distracted to appreciate his predicament.  Other movement caught his attention, however, and Anamaria sank down behind him.  She spoke no word, but as her hands settled lightly on his shoulders Jack relaxed and began to look considerably more pleased about the situation.

In silence people began to appear from the dark, walking slowly amidst the dull fog of shock.  Pirates, sailors and marines mingled heedlessly together as they gaped at what the blast had left.  Original John and Irish John both stopped as they saw the survivors sitting on the sand below.  Heaving a sigh of relief, the Irishman crossed himself with determined sincerity.  Norrington stared but did not speak as he stumped to a halt near them, one corner of his mind noting that the _Dauntless_ had been blessedly far enough away to escape damage.  Behind him, Thomas Fry hung in the grip of two burly marines, his wrists shackled and ankles in irons, his brutish face vacant with disbelief.  It was over.  It was, incredibly and finally, over.

Down on the sand four figures remained huddled in the shimmering glow of the distant flames.  Three of them watched the blaze do its cleansing work; Sparrow, Anamaria and Elizabeth all with fire reflected in their eyes and somber stillness in their faces.  Will, however, remained bent gently into Elizabeth's arms, finding his stillness there.  Perhaps his continued grip on Jack's shirt was an embrace as well.

***

TBC …

**_A/N:_**_ There, you may all breathe, now.  Clever tricksy readers, how many of you were trying to figure out how Jack might not be dead?  _:-)_  Aw, I wouldn't do that! (Not if I hoped to live, LOL!)_

_Now, could a big honkin' diamond stop or turn a bullet?  I have no idea.  I have now been told that it might, and that it might even survive the impact, albeit with damage to both the diamond and Jack.  But this is fiction and that was luck and maybe Jack turned just so at the most auspicious moment …anyhow, it worked in my world!_

_Just one more chapter, folks … one more chance for … anything … to happen.  Heh heh heh._


	32. Chapter 32 One Last Huzzah

**PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN: THE AFRICAN STAR**

**By ErinRua**

CHAPTER 32

Dawn rose up in glory as a new day filled the world. Towers of gold and banners of flame ignited the eastern sky, spilling their molten splendor wide upon the shifting face of the sea. Within the harbor sleepy pastel hues still painted beach and bay, while a faint haze hung above the blackened bones of what had once been a ship. But there were none to mark or mourn her.

Standing on a grass-grown dune above the shore, Norrington watched with some bemusement what daylight had brought. In the middle of the harbor the _Dauntless_ stood at anchor, whilst much farther out, a mere toy against the sunrise, the _Black Pearl_ waited for her errant souls. However, it was not merely the spectacle of pirate ship and war ship standing peaceably just outside each other's cannon range that held his attention.

No, it was the pale flames that danced beneath sizzling pots and the merry voices ringing along the peaceful shore. As the chaos of the night had faded, the orchards and village behind Biltmore's hacienda had produced an unexpected gathering, plain brown folk whose hands were rough with the work their master had demanded. However, their women took one look at the sixty-two wretched souls freed from Biltmore's makeshift prison, and embraced them all with laughter and smiles - and what smelled like most excellent cooking. Biltmore's kitchen, it seemed, had been quite thoroughly sacked.

Norrington had considered it only proper to send to his ship for what stores and aid he could spare, and he watched as his surgeon and several crewmen moved amongst the happily-chattering crowd. If he doubted for a moment any action he had taken, he had only to look on the shining smiles of the women on the beach below. He would remember forever opening those stable doors and seeing their pale faces in the gloom, like ghosts who had despaired of ever knowing release.

Somewhere a small drum began pounding out a rapidly-thumping beat and a wild flute or pipe struck up a strange, high-spirited tune. Just above the nearest fire was the music's origin, where most of the women sat like bright blossoms in the sand, laughing and talking amongst themselves. One eyebrow lifted as Norrington noticed quite a number of Jack's crew were also sprawled comfortably about the cook fires, availing themselves of the chance of food and celebration.

"It rather looks like a picnic, don't you think, sir?"

Lieutenant Groves smiled as Norrington turned his head and replied, "Yes, it does."

Some of the _Pearl_'s crew, the commodore realized, he could now attach names to. Gibbs was telling a tale that he shaped in the air with agile hands, whilst the mute, Cotton, and his blue parrot watched. Original John and one of Norrington's own men, an equally large gunner's mate, were engaged in an arm-wrestling match atop an empty powder keg. Meanwhile the Irishman wore a silly grin on his face while he talked to one of the former captives, a pretty plump girl with Cupid's-bow lips and utterly charming dimples.

"A very large picnic." Groves frowned in contemplation. "With drums. And pirates."

Norrington sighed, but did not answer. Now the rapid tempo of the drum was joined by a rhythmic clapping of hands, a fast, fetching sort of beat for all its primitiveness, while the gunner's mate grabbed two sticks and began rapping out a syncopated rhythm on the rim of the powder keg. The women's smiles flashed gaily as their hands kept the pace that drum and pipe merrily followed. They were women of all colors, the commodore realized, dark and ivory and pale as white roses, each beautiful in her own way. Among them Elizabeth Swann shone like a brightly-colored lily while Will Turner lay contentedly in the sand beside her.

Then above the clapping hands, pattering drum and wooden clatter of the keg rose high, joyous voices in a song as clear as the new-born sun. The words were none the commodore had ever heard before, for those who sang bore the blood of faraway Africa. Yet here all colors were bound together in gladness; in this new music was something primal and pure and filled with light. Norrington listened and felt the awakening of a rare, marvelous buoyancy in his heart.

"Commodore …"

He looked to meet his subordinate's suddenly embarrassed expression. "Yes, Groves?"

"May I … may I go … join them?"

The smile that grew on the commodore's face seemed like the first real smile he'd worn in longer than he cared to think about. "Yes, Groves, you may."

Hands clasped behind his back, he watched as the young man hastened away, his dignity abruptly giving way to a sudden bound onto the beach. As Groves grew near the cooking and singing, several of the women began standing up, still clapping out the quick tempo as high voices rang and the wild pipe skirled and sang. Brighter now rang this song of ancient Africa, of liberation and hope, and even those who did not know the language joyfully chanted the syllables of the simple chorus. It was, Norrington realized, the shining voices of freedom singing.

Freedom.

While he watched, the tall colored woman, Bess, grabbed her swirling skirts and sprang into a joyful, barefoot dance. Magnificent, she was, so purely alive, as if the earth spun around her while the bright heavens wheeled above. In seconds her gleeful celebration drew with her every woman standing. A jovial shout of approval went up and ere another minute passed they were pulling grinning pirates and equally grinning sailors into the serpentine line of the dance.

"Sir?" Gillette, this time, his round face distressed. "The last of Sir John's henchmen have left. I am certain any number of them are wanted for any number of heinous crimes, but without warrants and on Cuban soil …"

"Very good, Gillette."

"Sir, what should I do about … them?"

Pulling himself back to the moment, Norrington directed his attention where the young man pointed. A hundred yards down the beach several of Jack's crew were toting large armloads of plunder down the dunes, towards their already-laden boats. Yes, far more than just Biltmore's kitchen had been sacked during the night. The hold of the _Black Pearl_ must bulge with treasure by now.

However, Norrington found that he really did not much care what happened to a dead turncoat white slaver's goods. Instead, he found himself noticing that, over by the fires, Elizabeth had sprung up to dance, as well. Not a bounce behind her came Jack Sparrow, his dark eyes gleaming mischief, but Turner seemed to be anchoring himself to the sand in embarrassed refusal. Sparrow bent towards the young blacksmith with a flashing grin and whatever he said had to be a taunt, for Will's resistance abruptly ended.

"Sir? They're looting, sir."

"Mm? Yes, so it seems."

The dance was growing in size, snaking, turning, sweeping others into the sheer abandon of its pounding rhythm and high, gay voices. Elizabeth spun on the sand like wind-touched flame, her hair flying loose upon her shoulders as it never could in their own polite society, and grasping her right hand was Will Turner. They were fire and steel and white smiles, and they had never looked so perfect together. The commodore was not surprised to see Sparrow leaping after them with Anamaria in tow, the lady pirate laughing as brightly as the morning.

"Should I … that is …" Gillette bit his lip, scowling.

Norrington barely heard. Down there, they were dancing … and it was sunrise and the green hills echoed the drumbeat, heartbeat, born-of-earth song of freedom out across the waking sea.

"Gillette, do as you see fit. Just remember that we are in Cuba, where we happen to have little or no jurisdiction. Meanwhile …"

Norrington hopped a step down the dune and looked back up at his startled junior's face. He was a commodore in the Royal Navy in a battle-stained uniform coat, and his eyes suddenly glinted like a leprechaun's.

"I … am going dancing."

* * *

The wide seas of the Spanish Main had seen a great many things, but perhaps the creatures of the deep or the birds of salt air had not seen what the trade winds now blew. Though remaining respectfully apart, two ships sailed on the wings of the same strong breeze. The _HMS Dauntless_ strode southward tall and proud, whilst far off her larboard beam a dark vessel forged its way, the _Black Pearl_ also bound south again. Though unspoken and unacknowledged, this tenuous truce would last for but a little while. It was an event momentous enough that both sailors and guests aboard the _Dauntless_ found themselves staring out at their peculiar traveling companion. 

"Do you think we'll see him again?" Elizabeth asked, as she and Will watched the smoky sails out yonder.

"I should hope so," Will said and grinned. "He commissioned a sword and I already have his payment for it."

Not far away silvery laughter marked the presence of Bess, Sarah and several others of the ladies, happily taking in the bright sunshine. Behind them Norrington strode coolly along the deck, his presence a stern reminder to gaping sailors that they actually did have duties to attend to.

So it was by queer chance that warship and pirate sailed nearly together, when down along the coast of Cuba two sets of sails emerged over the horizon. Lookouts shouted while officers scrambled and ere long identification was clearly made. Coming to meet them were two great warships, each bearing the Burgundy Cross of Spain. Norrington's expression was thunderous as he shouted his orders and the decks of the _Dauntless_ boiled with organized chaos. The lady guests of the Royal Navy were quickly hustled far below, and the fluttering blue jack of England shot defiantly to the maintop. Below decks the rumbling of guns being run out shook the ship's sturdy knees.

"Not … again," Norrington vowed grimly.

Wig and hat, sword and coat, he stood on the quarterdeck beside his helmsman and awaited the impending confrontation with coldly narrowed eyes. He would not stand a second time for the humiliation of Spanish inspection.

"Sir, will we … will we engage them?" Gillette's voice was tight with apprehension.

Without sparing him a glance, Norrington said, "That is entirely up to them. We will not initiate hostilities, by any means. But we will not tolerate being boarded like common smugglers again."

A sigh marked Groves' presence where he stood beside Gillette, before the other young officer spoke. "Let us hope their captains use good judgement, then. I've readied the signal flags, sir."

"Very good. To your stations, gentlemen, and Godspeed. Stand by for my orders."

Between glorious blue sky and heaving blue waves the deadly distance steadily narrowed. Two Spanish warships versus one heavier, but solitary, British ship-of-the-line; the odds could only be described as grim.

A quick thudding of feet preceded the appearance of a dark head on the steps to the quarterdeck, as Will Turner popped into view. His young face was alight with equal parts dread and excitement.

"Commodore, permission to come up?"

Ah, so the lad had learned a modicum of sea-faring courtesy. "Come."

Will sprang up the last steps in one bound and came to Norrington's side. "Sir, is there anything I can do? How can I help?"

"You may pray, Mister Turner."

Will's brow furrowed as he looked forward, eyes narrowing as he watched the twin sets of oncoming sails. "They're splitting up. They mean to come at you from both sides."

"Yes, they do. But we have the weather-gauge."

"The what?"

"The wind, Mister Turner. The wind is entirely in our favor. And the starboard ship does not handle her sails well."

Squinting, Will could not tell at this distance whether the sails were well-handled or not. Nor was he the least bit sure he would know if the evidence flapped right in front of him. Thus he simply nodded mute acceptance.

"The ladies are securely below?"

Startled, Will returned his attention to the commodore. "Aye, they are. The surgeon and the cook are with them."

"Very good. Then you will join them."

"But - I can fight! Commodore, I can -."

"Your job, Mister Turner …" Norrington turned to level a frigid stare at the young blacksmith. "Is to see that Miss Elizabeth Swann is delivered to her father safe and sound. There are also some very frightened young women, down there, who would benefit greatly from the company of a level head and cool demeanor, when and if all hell breaks loose up here. You will provide that comfort, Mister Turner."

The commodore sighed and turned his gaze out across the water once more. "And if this goes ill, you may be their last line of defense. See the arms-master for pistols and shot, on your way down."

Will's unhappiness at his orders was noticeable, but he turned away without argument. Yet before he reached the steps a shout rang from the rigging high above.

"Deck, ahoy! Bloody 'ell, Commodore, look at the _Black Pearl_!"

In the intensity of preparations Norrington had utterly forgotten the pirate ship cruising away off his larboard side. Indeed, had he given it any thought he would have presumed that Sparrow was piling on every scrap of sail he owned, in order to flee as far from trouble as possible.

He would have been wrong.

The _Black Pearl_ had turned, and while she was indeed leaning beneath a remarkable press of smoke-grey canvas, she was not running away. She was bearing straight towards the _Dauntless_, and the white spume at her bow was becoming more visible by the minute.

"What in heaven's name is he doing?" Norrington stepped to the rail in disconcertion.

Will leaned beside him, peering in equal perplexity at the on-coming pirate ship. Suddenly he began to grin.

"Bide a moment, Commodore."

Norrington flicked a brief frown of annoyance, but made no reply. A long moment passed, the sailors and marines aboard the _Dauntless_ now torn between anxiety about the Spaniards before them and the black pirate ship coming from their side. And then … ah, this time Will could see the movement in the _Pearl_'s rigging, the high yards turning the sails to take the wind at a new angle.

Commodore James Norrington stared in unbridled shock. "Good lord …"

For yonder across the glittering waves, as neatly as if he had done this a thousand times before, Jack Sparrow was bringing the _Black Pearl _into line of battle. His gun ports were open and his station was firmly parallel to the course of the _HMS Dauntless_. Ahead the Spaniards seemed to waver, and then a fluttering became visible amongst their sails. Within seconds the two ships were turning, bearing away towards the distant coastline.

The entire crew of the _Dauntless_ erupted into wild cheers, and their victorious howls may have been audible even to Sparrow's hearing. Will's own whoop nearly split Norrington's eardrums. However, the enormous gust of relief sweeping through the commodore left little room to care.

"That wily, conniving, devious fox," he said. Nor did it sound entirely like censure.

Will turned with a huge white grin. "He may be a pirate - but I think he'd rather keep you alive to match wits with."

Norrington was not sure what to make of that, but the cheers of his crew forbade any further comment.

"HUZZAH THE PEARL!" they shouted. "HUZZAH JACK SPARROW! UP THE BLACK PEARL!"

Within moments the two Spanish warships were no more than rapidly receding white shapes fading towards the Cuban shore. Not long after, the _Black Pearl_ also began to drift away on a broad reach that might or might not have had Tortuga in mind. Silently, steadily, like a black-winged gull she sailed ever further, until at last the brilliant glare of sea and sky stole her from their view.

* * *

The final leg towards Jamaica slid beneath the _Dauntless_' keel as two young folk hung merrily on her larboard rail. Or rather Elizabeth Swann draped herself over the rail, whilst Will Turner hung just above her, clinging to the shrouds and leaning precariously to the press of the following winds. 

"I love it!" she cried, and flung her arms as if to embrace all the wide sea and the sky and the birds wheeling above.

"Elizabeth, look!" Will beamed as he suddenly pointed forward to the froth at the _Dauntless_' bow.

There a sleek grey form arced to knife the waves and then there were two, three, four hurrying shapes just beneath the water's surface. Elizabeth squealed with delight as all four dolphins flung themselves into a merry race. Again and again they shot from the gleaming waves as swiftly as living javelins, to plunge from sight and then reappear at hurtling speeds. Frequently they flashed right beside the ship's plunging bow, but always slipped just out of harm's way.

"They say dolphins bear the souls of lost mariners."

Will twisted to look down at the source of the voice, and met Norrington's gaze. The commodore appeared surprisingly relaxed, considering the mayhem of recent days.

Elizabeth's mouth shaped a pretty O. "Really?"

"Yes." A faint smile curved Norrington's lips as he watched the dolphins' play. "And they can speak, after a fashion. I've met sailors who swear they can understand what they are saying."

He favored them with another smile, just a small one, but it found residence in the twinkle of his eyes. "Do try not to fall overboard, won't you? We're making at least ten knots and it would take some time to come back and fetch you."

With a prim little bow, the commodore walked away. Sighing, Will looked down into the rushing water below. Four smooth fins broke the surface and raced to become speeding shadows beneath the waves.

Four dolphins … four souls.

"Will?"

Her expression was worried when he looked down at her, so he dropped back to the deck. Leaning a hip against the rail, he reached and tugged her fingers to draw her closer.

"Do you remember that sloop you saw me on at St. Marcs?"

"Yes." Carefully she studied his face, reading the hidden grief written there. "I thought she was quite lovely."

"Her name was the _Lady Elizabeth_." Sunlight warmed his earnest brown eyes as he met her searching gaze. "If you will permit me, I'd like to tell you about her … and the men I sailed with."

She twined her fingers in his and turned her back so that she stood snugly inside the circle of his arms. There she leaned into him and clasped his hands firmly against her stomach. A blacksmith's hands. A pirate's hands. The hands of a man whom she knew loved her with a strength that was dizzying - and in whom she trusted more than just her life.

"I'd like that very much," she said softly.

"One was named Matty Whitlock," Will began, and rested his cheek against her hair as the breeze caressed them both. "He was a funny, skinny, red-headed fellow who played the most marvelous fiddle. I heard him play back in New Town, while Irish John sang. I think you would have liked him. One time …."

As his tale unfolded the quiet words became part of the voices on the wind; of rigging that hummed and seas that sang and the swift, gay shadows of dolphins. Broad white sails bellied taut and full as the solitary ship cast its shadow upon the glittering expanse of the deep. From around the curve of the world the trade winds blew, and the sea was carrying them home. Or perhaps they were home, and the sea simply bore them to the dreams that waited shining beyond the horizon.

**THE END**

* * *

**SEA FEVER**  
_by John Masefield_

_I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,_  
_And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,_  
_And the wheel's kick, and the wind's song, and the white sails shaking, _  
_And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking._

_I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide_  
_Is_ _a wild call and a clear call, that may not be denied._  
_And all I ask is a windy day and the white clouds flying,_  
_And_ _the flung spray, and the blown spume, and the sea gulls crying._

_I must go down to the sea again, to the vagrant gipsy life._  
_To the gulls' way and the whales' way where the wind's like a whetted knife._  
_And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow rover _  
_And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over._

(**_NOTE:_** _To the best of my knowledge, the above poem was published before 1913 and has since passed into the Public Domain._)

* * *

_**Author's Note:**_

Well … So that's that.

Odd, it feels rather empty around here, now.

I hope this tale has been a voyage worth taking for you, my good readers. The writing of it has been a journey whose scope I never anticipated. When I began, (way back in September) it was with no more than a vague, airy notion of writing a little something that might carry on the spirit of fun and adventure found in the original movie. Little did I know that it would evolve into a challenge of my writing abilities that more than once had me sitting with my head in my hands, wondering if I could ever pull this off. I have never written a tale so purely action-adventure. I have never had a plot so get up and run away with itself. I am not even sure if I have ever written anything this long, before. I definitely have rarely written anything that sent me so frequently scrambling for research and inspiration as this.

It was worth it. Whether you can see it or not, this story marks a writing achievement that I was not sure I could accomplish. I did not _write_ this story so much as I _pursued_ it, and a merry chase it was. Jack Sparrow truly is the very devil to catch, and that whippersnapper of a blacksmith kept surprising me, too. Not to mention a certain clever commodore. However, I had the support of a marvelous great lot of readers and honest reviewers who truly kept this story afloat. Not so much hearing that the chapters were going well, although that was uplifting, but it was the _responsibility_ of the thing that kept me going. People were reading, people were caring what I wrote, and no matter how flat the muses went or how slowly the words came, I dared not let you down.

And that is something I could use a lot more of, the discipline to actually sit down and write, even when it seems I can't.

Do I have plans for a sequel? At this time, no. Folks, my brains are tired. I just finished writing a _book_. In about four months' time I wrote 32 chapters, which in MSWord is 253 pages and 97,450 words. But … if Jack should come swaggering around with another tale to tell, I most certainly will not turn him away. Or that blacksmith, either. :-)

Thank you all for being the wind in my sails and the stars I could steer by. Without knowing you were there, all of you … I honestly don't know if this story would have turned out half so well as it did.

It's been a heck of an adventure, mates. Thank you for coming along. May you have fair winds and following seas! I'll shout you a round the next time we're in Tortuga. ;-)

God speed

Erin  
10 January 2004

* * *

_"Pirates of the Caribbean" title, characters and concepts © Disney Enterprises and Jerry Bruckheimer, 2003_

**_"Pirates of the Caribbean: The African Star"_**

_An Over-Caffeinated Production_  
_In_ _Association with My Obsessive-Compulsive Tendencies_

**_Written by:_**  
_ErinRua, 2003-2004_

**_Directed by:_**  
_Captain Jack Sparrow and Commodore James Norrington_

**_Produced by:_**  
_ErinRua in conjunction with copious doses of Folger's Classic Roast ™ and Hershey's Hot Cocoa Collection Dutch Chocolate ™_

**_Executive producers:_**  
_Assorted bedraggled muses who have now retreated for a long period of seclusion and rehabilitation, accompanied by soft lights and restful music._

**_Post Production Crew:_**  
_Celebsul, proof-reader - thanks is not enough! _  
_Plus TheBlackPearlSailsFanFiction Yahoo!Group_  
_Language assistance: Eledhwen Merci beaucoup!_

**_Visuals and Special Effects:_**  
_My Weird Right Brain_

**_Parrot Wrangler:_**  
_Mister Cotton_

**_Special Thanks:_**  
_To all my readers and reading friends, whose energy and encouragement kept the wind in my sails, when I began to fear I might drift off-course. Without you, this tale might not have been told or at least not told so well. Bless you all._

**_To the "Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl" creators:_**  
_Gore Verbinski, Jerry Bruckheimer, Ted Elliott and Terry Rossio_  
**_And_** **_cast including but not limited to:_**  
_Johnny Depp, Orlando_ _Bloom, Keira Knightly, Geoffrey Rush, Jack Davenport and Zoe Saldana:_  
_THANK YOU_ _for all your hard work, talent and spectacular imagination. I've not had so much sheer fun with a movie since "Indiana_ _Jones" or "The Princess Bride."_

_**Music:**_

_"Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl" movie soundtrack_  
_By Klaus Badelt and Hans Zimmer © 2003_

_"Gladiator" movie soundtrack_  
_By Hans Zimmer, Klaus Badelt and Lisa Gerrard © 2000_

_"Master and Commander, Far Side of the World" movie soundtrack_  
_By Iva Davies, Christopher Gordon and Richard Tognetti © 2003_

_"The Lord of the Rings: The Two_ _Towers" movie soundtrack_  
_By Howard_ _Shore_ _© 2002_

_**Special Notes:**_

_The pirates seen killed in this story are actually retired in the Bahamas, with a personal staff, private beach and their own sailing yacht. It is not recommended that visitors bring any valuables with them._

_Sir John Biltmore and Thomas Fry were eaten by Vietnamese potbellied pigs._

_A Will Turner original sword was recently auctioned at Christies for $100,000 to an undisclosed buyer._

_Sewing, mending, patching and chicken soup for the cast was done by Mrs. Mavis O'Malley, who is now living in a penthouse overlooking Central Park._

_The Mexican who changed emptied rubbish bins on set every day is now CEO of a garlic cooperative._

_Are you still reading this? Go home!_


End file.
